


Yuletide Proposal

by Elphen



Series: Say it with gifts [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Christmas, Christmas Fluff, Concerned Sherlock, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Fear of Rejection, Helpful Mycroft Holmes, Insecure Sherlock Holmes, Insecurities, John being a good boyfriend, M/M, Marriage Proposal, Mycroft Being Mycroft, Mycroft Being a Good Brother, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV Sherlock Holmes, Sequel, Sherlock Being Considerate, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Sherlock Thinking, Sherlock thinks too much, Sibling squabbles, Understanding John, Wedding Rings, Worried Sherlock, sherlock being a good boyfriend
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-19
Updated: 2020-12-23
Packaged: 2021-03-11 05:26:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 23,517
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28179810
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elphen/pseuds/Elphen
Summary: It's December again and Sherlock and John will be celebrating their first anniversary as an official we're-aware-of-being-one couple.Sherlock, however, hits upon a notion while thinking and once the idea sinks its roots in, there's no getting rid of it. But it's a good idea, too, isn't it? Proposing to John, that is. Show him that he means enough to him for the world's only consulting detective to want to marry him. Be his.Only, you can't just slide a ring across the table one evening and say 'how about it?', now can you? Not if you're Sherlock, at least, it seems.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: Say it with gifts [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/944625
Comments: 32
Kudos: 41





	1. The Idea

**Author's Note:**

> Merry Christmas, everyone, or whichever else you celebrate.  
> Nobody expected this series to have another instalment, did they? Well, surprise! I did start this back in 2018 (sorry if that's something you can tell) thus the first year anniversary, but I decided to finish it this year. Aren't you lucky?

It was that time of year again. Not only was it the time of fairy lights and horrible decorations, people peddling God only knew what in the name of the season, get-togethers everywhere and the quality of the crime dropping to something horribly pedestrian.

To Sherlock, it was also time for another marking of the year. One that had an almost complete overlap with the one celebrated by everybody else, as that was sort of inevitable, really, but was infinitely more important to the consulting detective than anything that had to do with births of saviours or fat men in furry lobster costumes going down far too small chimneys.

Christmas Day was, after all, the day that marked his and John’s anniversary as a couple.

Before they’d got together, he would’ve had nothing but scorn for the significance of such milestones. It was a day, nothing more. Just like Christmas or Easter, like Valentine’s or like birthdays, all they did was mark out another year in which the people involved had managed to eke out something like a life, as a person, as a couple or as a family. It was a marker that you’d got through it from the last time you’d had to endure it and very little else.

To be honest, he’d been of that opinion after they’d got together, too. He hadn’t taken much, if any notice, of the first Valentine’s after they’d become a couple. That was, a romantic couple. But it had mattered to John and Sherlock would have to admit that when he saw how the blond had reacted to the gifts he’d managed to find, to the effort he’d made – admittedly after John had set the ball rolling, as it were, but it was still not one-sided, as might’ve been expected – he’d begun to see why you might do something like that.

That wasn’t to say he’d been exactly overflowing with such gestures in the meantime, but John hadn’t seemed to mind. He’d just seemed happy when Sherlock made the effort, possibly because he knew that when the younger Holmes did them, it was because he wanted to rather than because he felt an obligation to. Which was how so many others tended to view things, or so he’d told Sherlock one day when Father’s Day rolled around. Or had it been Mother’s Day? Did it matter?

He’d also found a strange sort of satisfaction in the preparation of such things, which he wouldn’t have expected in a million years.

But now…now their first anniversary was coming up and he found himself at a loss.

It wasn’t because he didn’t know how to celebrate it. Technically speaking, since it was on Christmas, he could probably get away with doing nothing more spectacular than finding a proper gift and spend some extra time spoiling John. Christmas did sort of take precedent, didn’t it? Not particularly for him, of course, but…

Perhaps he should’ve discussed it with John. If the circumstances had been different, he actually felt sure he would have so they could plan something together. For what he had in mind, though, he needed to keep John in the dark, at least about one particular thing.

To be honest, he would be better off if he talked to John about at least the majority of it, however, if he didn’t want to end up having his own plan foiled by John’s unquestionably considerate and sweet idea.

Actually, he was rather looking forward to seeing what plans John might have in store for celebrating. He knew the former soldier wanted to celebrate – though honestly, it hardly required effort to work that out – but he didn’t know exactly what he wanted.

As for Sherlock’s own plan…it had rather come out of nowhere.

No, that wasn’t quite right. It had snuck up on him, slowly, carefully, dodging behind doors in his Mind Palace whenever he tried to get a focus on it, until it was right up close and acting as though it had always been there.

Of course it had always been there. Why wouldn’t it be there? How did it not fit in with the rest so well when to imagine things without it would leave a gaping hole, if not a collapse of everything around it?

All in all, its behaviour…resembled something rather familiar. Or someone.

Then again, it was the logical progression, wasn’t it? Many still considered it to be the only proper progression but honestly, he held those in the same regard as the people who put too much store in milestones.

Someone had to have crimes done to them, didn’t they?

No, it wasn’t because it was the right thing to do. At least, it wasn’t the right thing because of societal expectations. It was what he wanted to do, regardless of what the general populace thought of it.

The question was…comprised of several smaller questions, actually. Why do this, exactly? Would John want to? If he did, would he want to do it now? Would it be going too fast? For John, not for him, but still. What was the best way to go about it? Was there a risk that he could muck it up somehow and what should he do to prevent that?

It would be easy to argue that he’d already answered the first one; because he wanted to. But there were other ways of going about such a thing, for one, and for another, it was, some would argue, rather out of character for him. It might even, by one or two, be casually but pointedly mentioned, eyebrows raised over a cup of tea and cake, that he’d needed John to spur him into action, on rec and set him on the path of thinking of doing something for him, without being prompted.

That last point, however, he could mostly dismiss. Yes, without Mycroft letting him in on what John had been planning for his Christmas present and the implications thereof, he wouldn’t have known and wouldn’t have sorted out in his own mind whether he wanted things to go that way before it had been sprung on him. Which in turn would’ve made it less likely that he’d have said yes.

But – and that was the important point – it wasn’t _impossible_ that he’d have said yes if he’d been given time to consider it. In fact, he would’ve said it was almost certain that he would, the caveat there only because he might’ve been too unprepared for the eventuality to form the correct answer. Besides, even if he had been helped along, as it were, he’d still accepted it and he’d moved forward since then, hadn’t he? He’d improved. He’d _made the effort!_

That wasn’t to say it had been the chore that the expression ‘made the effort’ often implied. Quite the opposite but that was beside the point right now.

Just because John had started didn’t mean that Sherlock couldn’t initiate this, ask for this step forward in their relationship – or that it was in any shape or form out of character for him to do so. He was allowed to learn, surely? Allowed to change and, for crying out loud, _grow_?

Still, the concept of marriage wasn’t something that he would’ve ever said he’d wanted. Then again, neither was a romantic relationship, if someone had asked him before John had walked into his life, cane and all.

And he had to admit the thought appealed to him. A lot.

The question of whether John would want to, that was another one entirely and he wasn’t as certain he could answer that. If he was asked by someone else, then he would’ve said, of course he would want to. But within the safety of his mind, without the need for walls, he wasn’t as sure.

Perhaps he didn’t want to at all, happy in what they had. Strictly speaking, it wasn’t as though much would change if they were husbands rather than boyfriends. Not on a day-to-day basis. Legally, there were some things that would change, of course – being allowed to visit when one or the other had landed himself in hospital without having to bully their way through was one that sprang immediately to mind – but otherwise, they lived much as they always had, before they had become a couple, even. What was to say it would be different if they both wore a ring? Or if it did change, change for the better. There were some rather worrying, if tedious, statistics on the subject, after all.

But it wasn’t that at all. It wasn’t the practicalities of it that mattered or the fact that it was just paperwork and a ring when you got right down to it. Those were just the formalities, the by-product of what was really the driving force and reason.

It was a promise. A promise and an oath, to be with the person you’d chosen. To say that you cared enough to tie yourself to them in front of a lot of people. Of course, divorce statistics told their own story, and it wasn’t as though people didn’t live perfectly happy lives without a piece of paper saying that they were wedded.

_Alright, let’s get down off that high horse for a minute and stop categorising it in terms of some nebulous third party,_ his brain piped up. _What you want isn’t just the symbolism of a couple joined, it’s showing John once and for all that you mean this. That you’re in it for the long haul and isn’t going to have a change of heart or whatever else it is he’s afraid of. Which he is, very much so, if the way he sometimes looks at you when he thinks you won’t notice is any indicator, not to mention the way he stiffens just a little when something about future plans comes up._

_You want to prove to him that you honestly, truly love him._

Yes. He did.

Which was also the reason he wanted to be sure he got it right. Part of the reason, anyway. Some of it was, he could admit to, because he wanted to prove to John, and somewhat to himself, that he could be the one to take the initiative, too, and be just as creative and thoughtful in the way he went about it.

Would it be too soon for John? After all, they had only been together for a year.

That was far longer than most of John’s girlfriends had lasted, that was true, but even with the ones who’d stuck it out for a relative long haul, there hadn’t been any indication that John had wanted to, as the colloquial term went, ‘pop the question’ to any of them. Not even if things had been allowed to develop without interferences, such as Sherlock.

But then, none of his bland girlfriends had actually known _John_ , had they? What they’d seen, what they’d expected and wanted, that had been the unassuming yet charming doctor, who wore comfortable clothes, was safe and could be brought home to the parents for Christmas dinner.

Hah. Idiots, the lot of them. Those things were John, but it was only the surface level of him and very little of what actually made him interesting. More importantly, what made him _tick_.

They didn’t know about the part of him which had been to war and hadn’t been traumatised by it. They hadn’t seen his struggle to have a life worth living after being shot. Didn’t know how much he was in control of himself and of the anger inside of him. Had to be, really. They knew nothing of his medical expertise in less savoury areas or his practical approach to dealing with things, including physical violence if needed. They wouldn’t want to know how he craved danger, needed to be pushed and brought to any sort of threshold as much as he needed something stable and warm, possibly even more so.

How when it seemed as though there was nothing more to him to discover or be surprised by, he shifted and did something unexpected, which in turn shifted the perspective on what had come before.

In fact, they had no idea of all the things that made him facetted and fascinating as a human being.

Nor did they know that he liked to relinquish that control but only to someone who could be trusted not to abuse it.

_You use me all the time, you wanker._

Though the voice was inside his own mind, it sounded remarkably like it was actually coming from John. Sherlock found himself inadvertently smiling.

And…well, yes, he did use him, but there was a difference between use and abuse, and he would never abuse the privilege he was given. Not when he knew of its existence, which he did now. He couldn’t change what he’d done but he could strive to better and for it never to happen again.

The point, though, was that even though they’d been together in a romantic sense for less than a year, they had known each other long before they’d become a couple and knew each other better than most people did after having been together for decades. In that context, short didn’t even enter into it.

Besides, it wasn’t as though there was a time limit on when you had to get married after the proposal had been made and accepted, was it? If John was amenable but needed a bit more time, then that was perfectly possible to do.

_And if he isn’t amenable at all, no matter how much time he gets?_

Then they could carry on as though he hadn’t asked the question and just continue living as they’d done up until now.

_You don’t honestly believe that. Because that’s a childish if fervent wish from people who doesn’t want to face the truth of the matter but want to cling, so they don’t lose everything all at once, and you know that it never ever works out that way for the people who try it._

He swallowed hard then did his best to ignore that thought. In fact, to be sure his mind was occupied until the thought could be properly deleted, he worked out a particularly complicated, delicate experiment he could do.

Unfortunately, that also meant a rather unsavoury one, in terms of smell, which John came home and yelled about for a while. The resultant argument and make-up cuddles on the sofa afterwards pushed the thought from his mind completely, at least for the time being.

Sherlock would never admit it out loud, but he liked the cuddles immensely. There was something about being the larger figure that scrunched himself up small so he could fit inside the hold of the smaller man that was incredibly appealing. Especially so when John pressed his nose into his hair and took to tracing nonsense patterns on his back.

There didn’t even need to be any ulterior motive to it or any need for it to move beyond that, as the case may be. Just the cuddling was more than enough to have Sherlock content for a surprisingly long time.

As for John…he seemed to be quietly amused but more than willing to indulge his overlarge pet.

It turned into a very good evening. As he hadn’t deleted the thought, merely pushed it away, however, it was inevitable that it would resurface and really, it was only a matter of time.

* * *

The thought could’ve come back to him at just about any other moment and it would’ve been a better time.

Well, perhaps that was a bit fanciful. John would probably have called it hyperbolic instead but that was just silly.

Regardless, the timing truly was horrendous; in the middle of first the moment where everything in a case clicked into place, where it was rather buried in the rest of the rocketing thoughts, then back again, refusing to be budged this time, when he was in the middle of a quite simply astounding explanation of what and how this crime had been committed.

It almost derailed his speech, in fact, and though he managed to recover, he’d got a look of what had to be puzzlement as well as slight concern from Lestrade at the stumble.

There was definitely a frown of concern on John’s face where his normal admiration and love should’ve been – Sherlock was infinitely more familiar with John’s expressions than anybody else’s, and not just because his was the face he needed to know best and was also infinitely more affected by them than anyone else’s – once the consulting detective had finished and turned towards him, grinning at him.

“What?” he asked, the grin falling from his face immediately even as he tried to halt it in place, as though it had never been. He most certainly didn’t sound defensive about it. Not in the slightest.

John cocked his head to indicate that he wasn’t going to answer that there but once they were outside, and indeed, Lestrade was still looking at him, and not in the usual way that said he hadn’t understood Sherlock or that he needed something else from him. Such as a statement down at the station.

So, Sherlock raised his chin and strode out of the building, ignoring the policemen entirely and making sure that John was right behind him.

Once they were outside, John stopped.

“Well, then?” he asked.

Sherlock went a few more steps, just on principle, before turning back to face his boyfriend. Which was still such an utterly inadequate word to describe what John was to him, not to mention it felt just a little bit juvenile.

Yes, ‘husband’ would definitely be infinitely preferable.

“I believe that it was you who wanted to say something here, not me.”

“You asked the question.”

“Which you then indicated you would answer here.”

“Right. What was that all about, then?” Another indication with his head, back in the direction they’d come. “And don’t go trying to fob me off with some non-explanation. You suddenly slipped the word ‘husband’ into that whole denouement when you’d just gone on about how it was clearly the spurned fiancé from years ago that couldn’t accept that she would rather stay in a relationship with two other women than return to him.”

“Yes. Another lovers’ quarrel, really. Pedestrian.” He couldn’t help smiling a little as he said it, though.

“Oh, I don’t know,” John said, grinning. “Their past with the spy stuff and the breeding of super intelligent wasps, that wasn’t bad.”

“Wasps aren’t bees.” With that, Sherlock started to move again.

The doctor gave him a sidelong look as he kept up. “You know, I think you actually managed to state something obvious for once. You sure you’re feeling okay?”

“Perfectly fine.”

“Right. Course. Still haven’t told me what it was about.”

“Slip of the tongue.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Really.” As though he was going to explain the actual reason to him. Yeah, that’d go down brilliantly, wouldn’t it?

‘Oh, nothing, John. Nothing at all. I just cannot get the thought of us becoming husbands out of my mind, it seems, and it’s starting to creep into my work. So, what do you say? Nip down the register office and get it done, grab a Thai on the way home? Or would you rather we did it in a church?’

If John didn’t kick him for that, either physically or verbally or more likely both, then he didn’t know Doctor Watson very well at all.

No, he wasn’t going to explain nor was he going to ask. Not yet anyway.

There were quite a few other things that needed asking around about and sorting first.

Such as a ring, for instance.

* * *

Getting a ring should be his first priority, or so he felt.

What he in fact ended up prioritising was getting to talk with Mycroft.

He told himself that he didn’t know what for. That the very last person he ought to talk to about this would be his brother, bachelor incarnate and if not celibate, then with such specific tastes that he needed a metropolis like London to find what he was after.

Not that Sherlock particularly wanted to think about the sexual tastes of his brother. There were areas where his mind simply refused to go, and he couldn’t bring himself to make it.

Nevertheless, he found that he wanted to discuss it with Mycroft – and besides, he owed his brother, didn’t he? After all, he’d been the one to put Sherlock onto the fact that John was planning something a bit bigger than your average present and that he might just like to do something in return. In a way, he was at least partly responsible for Sherlock’s current happiness, something which was left unsaid but felt between them.

‘Thank you’ wasn’t really an expression that passed with any sort of frequency between the two brothers, if at all, and Sherlock wasn’t about to change that.

This might do as a replacement, though.

* * *

“Brother mine, what a lovely surprise to see you – and at this time of year, as well.”

“Don’t push it on the blatancy of the lie, Mycroft,” Sherlock said as he sauntered into the office. He considered taking off his scarf, but he wasn’t going to stay around for long. Any crime committed around here was going to be utterly boring. “We’ve never made much of a concession to the season or other family stuff, there’s no need to start on it now.”

“Come now. You can grant me a little bit of leeway in that regard.” Mycroft smiled from his seat behind his desk and lo and behold, it seemed to even have the ring of genuineness. It must be something in the water. “Do sit down, by the way.”

“Why should I?”

“Well, given that you’ve decided to interrupt me at quite the busy time – “

“The time you are not busy, or at least claiming to be because you can’t keep your nose out of every pie you can possible find – or was that your fingers? – will be the day I’ll have to pay someone to have your corpse lifted out of this office’s window by crane.”

The smile didn’t disappear at that, though it had every reason to. It did stiffen a little, however.

Quite so, but be that as it may, the fact remains that you’ve waltzed right in here without any appointment or explanation. So please, do sit down.”

Sherlock did, though not because he was doing what he was told. Certainly not.

“I’m going to propose,” he said, without preamble.

Mycroft blinked at that, though only the once. “My word, there’s a turn-up for the books. If I had known your apparent animosity hid something like that, then I should’ve had – “

“Not to _you,_ don’t be disgusting, Mycroft. You know perfectly well who I mean.”

The smile turned more towards something genuine again.

“Ah, yes. The inestimable Doctor Watson.” He leaned back in his chair and steepled his fingers in front of his face.

“About time, too, I’d say, but then, with how long the two of you spent dancing around each other, it’s probably a wonder it hasn’t taken longer than this to go from starting a relationship, excuse me, a romantic relationship, to proposing. I had money on it coinciding with the first hospital visit that would be down to age rather than you managing to get the poor doctor into trouble through some hare-brained scheme or case or whatever.”

“You wouldn’t ever waste money betting.”

“Hypothetically, obviously. Then again, I would have, if I were a betting man, also have put my money on it being John proposing to you, not the other way around. It does seem to be him who does the driving in the relationship, to say the least.”

That particular barb, unintended though it just possibly was, plunged deeper than Sherlock expected it to and hurt more as a result, too. Though it also hurt because it managed to hit a bit of a raw nerve. More than a bit, really.

Damn Mycroft to – no, Hell wouldn’t be sufficient for him. Not by a long shot.

But he was changing that! Or he would, starting with this proposal. He’d show John that he was just as invested in this relationship as the doctor was and wanted to make it…make it into old age with him. That he wouldn’t grow tired of him and could be thoughtful, too. Take the wheel, to stay within Mycroft’s surprisingly colourful idiom, of the relationship.

_Doesn’t alter the fact that you haven’t in the relationship up until now, not really when it comes to actual relationship related things. You’ve let John not only steer the thing but there have been many situations where you’ve let him be the sole motor, following along. Mending holes in the boat is pretty useless if it’s already taken in enough water to sink it._

Were uselessly colourful metaphors catching? But there was a point to it, however little he wanted to admit it, or wanted to argue against it; that it was merely a reverse of cases where he took charge and John followed along.

Perhaps he had left it too late, remained passive too long and John might not wish to deepen a relationship where he had to do all the work.

_He might not even want to continue it and has just been too polite to say._

Sherlock blinked, not liking the direction his thoughts were taking and attempting to wrest back control of them.

That ought to have been easy, considering his normal iron grip on everything, but somehow, he found that they wouldn’t be so easily reined back in.

It was only when a hand landed on his shoulder that he realised Mycroft had moved and more than that, that he was…struggling to get it all back under control. Enough so that Mycroft was – was exhibiting something approaching a look of concern and had in fact got up from his chair, too.

Oh, for crying out loud, what was the bleeding _matter_ with him? This was all speculation. Mainly speculation, anyway. He had no concrete, definite clues or deductions. Yes, there were the things he’d thought about previous but that was it. The rest of it was up in the air, and –

“Sherlock, are you sure that you know what you’re doing?” Mycroft asked and the concern was to be found in his voice as well, which was even more disconcerting and not entirely welcome.

That said, it was also just the tiniest bit kind and perhaps even sweet. There was no way he was going to admit to that and especially not out loud.

Therefore, it surprised him greatly that his mouth had other ideas.

“No,” he said, and it came out quiet and earnest, surprising him further. “I’m not.”

He looked at his brother, asking for help with his eyes and his demeanour. With more or less everything other than his words because there was some things that just wasn’t possible right then.

Luckily for him, Mycroft wasn’t merely perceptive, he was more receptive and caring for his little brother than _he_ would ever admit to, even on pain of death. It wasn’t to set the cat among the pigeons that he’d drawn Sherlock’s attention to the doctor’s splurging on that one Christmas gift the year before.

So, he squeezed the shoulder he was holding, briefly but nevertheless with an amount of kind feeling that would’ve surprised, perhaps even shocked, people who knew them, such as John.

He also smiled and as if that weren’t enough, he got an equally small but genuine smile in return. They were gone almost immediately but that wasn’t the point. The point was that they’d been there in the first place, without prompting, i.e. threats, from others.

Sherlock left Mycroft’s office around fifteen minutes later, feeling…well, he didn’t know, to be honest. Happy? Accomplished? Worried? Terror-stricken? Optimistic? All of them?

But he did have a plan now. Something to work towards, even if it was in the broad terms – and that some of Mycroft’s suggestions had been ludicrous, to say the least.

Even so, there’s been more than a few good suggestions, a little reluctant though he was to admit it, and even offers to find someone to do all the work for him. After all, it wasn’t as though there was a lot of time left and it was a job that would take time as well as some skill.

Sherlock had declined that, without his usual sniping in the process. Well, without too much of it, which was progress in itself. He hadn’t given his brother an answer as to why, but that was hardly surprising.

He knew, too, that though he had declined that assistance, he was bound to find Mycroft’s attempts at helping, nevertheless. That it had never been on the cards for him to respect that Sherlock had said no, however emphatic, that was, overly dramatic, he’d been about it.

Oh, not that the older Holmes wouldn’t try to be clever and surreptitious about the help he gave and otherwise sourced, of course. He would go for providing the help that he not only thought Sherlock wouldn’t think of himself, which admittedly wasn’t an entirely unfair assumption that there would be, but what his baby brother wouldn’t notice.

Or possibly not the latter, given that he knew Sherlock was bound to know he’d do it and therefore would be on the lookout for those exact things.

Which would be…fine, really. Truly. It would. If it turned out to be something entirely off the mark, then all he had to do was ignore it. Ignore it without destroying it, either, of course, which would be the greater challenge.

And that was only provided it would be useless or off the mark. Sherlock didn’t want to admit it but something like his inner John reminded him that whatever else Mycroft was, he was clever, too, and as observant as Sherlock.

More importantly, and that was most certainly the inner John doing the talking, he was concerned about Sherlock and wanted the best for him.

It might be that they bickered, fought and engaged in other petty sibling concerns, more strongly and more dysfunctional in their roots than most, admittedly, but beneath and around it all, like a border that you might not notice but which was essential to the perception of the picture in question, was the care that only…only love could bring.

Now he wanted a shower and a scrubbing brush. One with steel wool as its brushes.

At the same time, something inside him lit up, like a fire gone down to embers which had been given another log, and burned quietly but strongly, not about to flicker out or even fade anytime soon.

And there was a plan. It might not be an outright good plan as of yet, but that was merely because he hadn’t got further than a general idea, which had the makings of a very good idea. With some adjustments and trimmings, it would be a magnificent idea.

He would propose to John and, given the way he would do it, there was no chance that the doctor would say anything but yes.

It _had_ to be that he had no choice – not because Mycroft had meddled or some other, actually lack of choice, mind – but to say yes.

The mere hint of suggestion that he would say no filled Sherlock with dread. So much so that he was on the verge, the very edge of the verge, of stopping any further thought on the matter, any light indication of a plan.

But that was why it had to be brilliant. Why it _would_ be brilliant. As brilliant as was ever conceived in the world.

Yes. It would have to be. He could not go back, now that he knew what it was like on the other side, to use a phrase that had been pummelled to oblivion and then sold as sausage filling, to what they had had before. Which would be the second best-case scenario, should he bugger this up enough that John would say no, with the first being the utopia that they carried on as boyfriends, nothing more said.

Sherlock had already gone through just why that was nothing but wishful thinking from the partner scorned and so could drop the thought as he would a suggestion from Anderson.

The far more likely scenario was that John would try to keep it going but would drift away and end up leaving, sooner or later, and the absolute worst of them would be if he refused to even talk to –

Sherlock stopped the thought with so much force that his brain had to do a hard reboot for a split second.

And that was why it would go down well. Why he would do everything in his power to make sure of it.

Among others, he would refrain from doing anything garish and sappy or preposterously excessive. But he would also need to research what it was that people expected of a proposal. Then he would have to filter it through, not so much his own perception as that was bound to go wrong before he had even settled into the starting blocks never mind got out of them, but that of John. One might think that would be a fair lot easier, but which he knew from experience and knowledge of the man would be more complex than it appeared.

He would have to make sure it was right, and that it was right on the first try.

No matter what else happened, he couldn’t afford to lose John, as a partner in solving-crime, a friend or a boyfriend. Compared to not having John at all, being husbands was indescribably unimportant.

It might still be showing him just how much he truly meant to Sherlock and that the consulting detective was ready and willing to make that step, that commitment. That confirmation that he was truly invested in this. If John wasn’t ready for that investment himself…

Enough. He was going around in circles now, and he was supposed to feel bolstered and confident now that he had a plan to work on, no matter how vague it was right now or how much it might change as he worked through it to make sure it’d work on the first try, not questioning all he’d already questioned.

Since when had he gone around in circles in his head on something like that? Not just re-examining a thought or observation to make certain that he had it right and it was indeed useful either, but a full-on spiral or at least a back-n-forth at rapid speed?

Likely since he had known John. More realistically, since he’d worked up the courage, with a bit of help, to progress their relationship, when emotions had become not just an expected part of half the dynamic but an equally expected and, more importantly, _desired_ part of the whole dynamic.

It was a trade-off he would never have expected he would settle for, let alone want, and yet, annoyed as he was for the instance of it, it felt like a very small price to pay and one that he would gladly pay.

Enough, though.

There was still time to sort it out. He would put it aside for the moment and give it all some time to simmer and mature in his head while he did something else.

After all, he was nearing home, and he would have to act inconspicuous. For all that he liked to pretend John didn’t notice, his partner had always been fairly observant and had only flourished in the time they’d known each other.

He took a deep breath, unaware that he’d done such a mundane thing of nervousness.

Things would sort themselves out, and for the better. For the best.

He would make sure they would.


	2. The Plan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock tries to formulate a plan, hopefully without Mycroft's interference, and has some anxieties about whether he ought to go through with this or not along the way

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I said it would be soon after, didn't I?  
> Thank you to the people who read the first part and especially those so kind as to leave feedback. That's hugely appreciated and has powered me through a bit.

Sherlock saw the second of Mycroft’s plans put into action less than a week after he’d come from their impromptu little meeting – the first had been a delivery of roses that could’ve de-rosed around half the Rose Garden at Kew, which had got given to Mrs. Hudson by happy accident. Thankfully, he spotted it before John did and steered him away from it as fast as possible.

The doctor stared at him in puzzlement, as they had been meaning to get something down that way, but when he didn’t get any response, you could see him mentally shake his head after calculating whether it was worth the bother of asking, let alone get into an argument about.

To compensate, Sherlock led them another way around to get to the same shop and then bought them both something sweet and sticky from a stall somewhere along the route hope. He could tell that foxed John more than the sudden, unexplained direction shift but he shrugged.

It wasn’t as though he was banned from doing thoughtful gestures, was it? He’d smiled at that and John had grinned and bit into his toffee apple. Sherlock’s own burned his tongue, the apple itself was rather floury and the toffee ran down his chin but all of that was alright. Well, no, it wasn’t, but it was made up for with the way that John smiled at him and wiped the toffee from his chin with his thumb.

Especially when he then popped said thumb into his mouth and sucked, seemingly entirely innocently.

In the ensuing laughter and…check for other drops of toffee in inconvenient places when they came home, Sherlock forgot Mycroft’s attempt altogether.

* * *

That only lasted until that night when his brother called to inform him that he wouldn’t be doing that again. After retreating to somewhere John wouldn’t hear him, Sherlock shot back that yes, he would, so long as Mycroft went over his head and decided on his own what was the best approach to this without taking either Sherlock or John into account, let alone letting it be his younger brother who did the deed, as it was _his_ proposal to his most important person in the entire world, not Mycroft’s.

The image of Mycroft proposing to John outright was too appalling to consider.

If he wanted to do a proposal of his own, then he could try it on that secretary he relied so heavily on and see how that worked out for him, without bothering Sherlock or buggering up his chances of doing a proposal that even he recognised as utterly crucial for his brother’s wellbeing if not his life in its entirety.

Alright, so that last bit was perhaps slight hyperbole but…well, he should actually be commended for being able to keep it to only slight hyperbole. Mycroft deserved a whole lot worse, after all, better understanding of him and closer bond or not.

Mycroft’s counter-comment to that was it was an abundantly evident necessity for him to go over Sherlock’s head, as he hadn’t even got as far as looking at engagement rings, let alone having bought one. If he was truly serious about his intentions, then he would have to work a whole lot harder on it because as it was, the ginger was anything but convinced.

Of course his brother had to poke his oversized can opener of a nose into whether Sherlock had made any purchases of such a thing or not and thought it entirely justified, too, which it wasn’t. Not when it came to the younger Holmes, at least. The rest of the world was different.

It was just as well, then, that he’d been prepared for such an eventuality and had paid in cash – he’d taken a case in the interim of deciding to propose and had, when the client had insisted on paying him, had made them give it in notes, and had kept it with him until he found what he wanted – in a small store that was both a jewellery shop and an antiques shop where it was rather easy to block your actions from the shop’s CCTV cameras.

He had made sure to buy something else, too, so that both Mycroft and John would think that he’d been in there for something else. Which he had, admittedly, as that was what he’d gone in for, but they wouldn’t suspect that he’d done both. Especially not John.

Sherlock was rather pleased with that ring, too. It was the one thing that he so far hadn’t second-, third- and fourth-guessed in relation to all this proposal business. Mostly, that was because he had known the minute that he saw it that it would have to be that ring.

It was an at first glance unseeming metal ring, with a relatively thin band. Not silver, either, but steel, with another band running around it. Look closer, however, and you could see that said band was in fact silver and what was more, it was decorated with Celtic knotwork in relief all the way around that silver, so thoroughly that it went from ostentatious to simple in its complexity.

If that didn’t utterly incapsulate John, he didn’t know what did. All that he could think to add would be something like an asklepian and that ran the risk of being a bit too clear in design and on the nose, to boot. You didn’t try to tinker with perfection either, of course.

He had to have it, no matter the cost.

Some might question why he hadn’t chosen something simpler or at least saved such a significant, perfect ring for the wedding ring rather than the generally less important, less permanent engagement ring. But provided that it all went well – of course it would go well, why did he have to keep adding qualifiers and other indicators of doubt in all the time? As though he wasn’t sure of it – he wanted them to choose their wedding rings together.

Then it might be a broader version of the same ring, perhaps with gold instead of silver, but they would decide together and the rings they would get would be identical, or at least complimentary ones, to indicate their commitment to each other.

This wasn’t about that; this was about showing John that he saw those complexities and he appreciated them along with the simplicity. It was about John, through and through, really. What he was to Sherlock.

The immediate question was now whether he ought to say anything to Mycroft about the ring. Not only would that defeat the purpose of the secrecy he’d employed to buy it, but there was a chance, just the tiniest risk, that John would be able to hear what he said or that if he didn’t, Mrs. Hudson would overhear and accidentally say something to the doctor before the date.

She wouldn’t do it on purpose, that was true, and she wasn’t as dotty as she liked to give the impression of, either. But that didn’t alter the fact that she did sometimes, especially when she was excited in terms of their relationship, which she was a very staunch supporter of, let something slip.

This wasn’t something he could afford at this point in time.

He did need to get Mycroft off his back, however. Or possibly even working with him, genuinely so, but that was possibly expecting miracles and although it was apparently the time of year for miracles, he preferred not to rely on them.

That would be like relying on the criminal fraternity to produce crimes to rate only a seven or above for a fortnight or possibly only a week.

So, what he did say was that he had been into a shop to order it and that it would be arrive on 24th, at the latest, ready for him to pick up. He then, without making a direct reference to a ring, described some of the details of it so as to convince Mycroft that he wasn’t bluffing.

The elder Holmes still wasn’t entirely convinced, but he let it go for the moment.

It sounded like he had a whole lot more to say but was interrupted, by a whole host of voices, by the sound of it. Sherlock just about heard the concerned brother voice dip into annoyance for a split second before it changed to oozing icy politeness. Then the line went dead.

That wasn’t an end of it, of course. Mycroft so loved to poke his nose in and now that he thought he was genuinely helping he would only get worse.

Still…there was at least something comforting in the thought that even Mycroft couldn’t quite escape well-wishers at this time of year, however two-faced and wily they might be. Or, if they were to truly get under his brother’s skin, they would be entirely genuine and cheery.

Give Mycroft Holmes a political intrigue that might cause the collapse of the empire, pardon, country, any day of the week rather than a social gathering only meant for party games and ‘fun’.

Apropos political intrigue…perhaps that was the way to go to get his brother to think of other things than micro-managing the brunet’s proposal. Or perhaps instead, he ought to just send him the plan that he had. Include him in the decided upon course of action, which might prove less destructive or even potentially helpful, who knew?

Then he could make him the political intrigue as a sort of…Christmas present.

Yes. That sounded like a plan. A good plan, even, and that was what he would do.

Pocketing the phone, which nestled itself along the relatively small box – honestly, most jewellery boxes were bulky only for the express purpose of being easily recognisable by the recipient, even when concealed – he made his way back inside their flat.

“What did Mycroft want, then?”

“Other than be a nuisance?”

John snorted. “Other than that, yes. You two plotting something?”

Once again, the consulting detective couldn’t help but feel rather proud of his boyfriend for picking up on something being amiss and putting his finger, correctly, on what it was. Not that he was about to say that out loud, of course. He couldn’t, could he?

“What on earth would I be plotting?” Sherlock tried to look innocent but then ruined it himself by sniffing. “I wouldn’t be plotting with him, in any case. Not even for a ten of a case.”

“Well, there goes my planned Christmas gift,” John said, returning to the book he was reading. Ostensibly, anyway, as he wouldn’t only be a few pages further than when Sherlock had left if he had been genuinely engrossed in his reading. “Will socks and candles do instead?”

Sherlock almost asked, ‘for him or for me?’ before he saw the smile tugging at the corners of John’s lips. Instead, he then went in for a kiss to that corner of a lip, feeling it as it consequently grew.

Arms encircled his waist as the blond turned in his chair and somehow, the brunet found himself in the other’s lap, folded up and around the shorter figure as they kissed and just enjoyed the nearness of the other.

Yes. There was nothing he wanted more than to have this man be his but more importantly, have him know just how seriously Sherlock meant this.

It didn’t even matter that he knew it was exactly the same kind of sentiment that thousands upon millions of other people through recent history – the necessity and security of marriage in older times meant sentiment had bugger all to do with it – had felt when they’d proposed to their significant other. This was still infinitely important and meaningful to him.

And if the fact that Sherlock didn’t remotely mind that he was doing something so…plebian, really, despite all the statistics and other facts about marriage and divorce and so on didn’t tell you just about all you needed to know about this…

* * *

Thankfully for Sherlock, it seemed that Mycroft was willing to play along with the suggestion he sent, as there were no more interventions or attempts to supersede him as the one to do the actual proposal.

That left only the issue of how to enact the plan. Well, no, it wasn’t the only issue. Far from it, in fact, but it was the main one and the one that had least to do with getting stuck within his own head in an unhelpful, tiring mental spiral.

A definite bonus for Sherlock who wasn’t keen on the uncertainty. The fact that he’d put himself through that exact same thing the year before when he’d tried to find a gift for John to communicate that he felt the same and wanted the same didn’t help much. If anything, it only made him more keenly aware of having been through it once before and knowing that he might have to go through it later on.

Did that honestly count, though? Not really, much as he was loath to admit it. Yes, he’d put himself out there in terms of showing his feeling. Showing that he was vulnerable and emotional, that he was willing to be that. Willing to risk opening up and showing John he, he loved him and wanted to be in a relationship with him, and that was a legitimate trip out onto the metaphorical ice, especially for him.

However, it had still been a relatively safe trip, for him. What he had essentially done was say yes. Agreed to what John proposed, through gifts, admittedly, but even so. It was taking a step out onto the ice when someone else had already gone out there and was holding out their hand, ready for him to grasp it, should he choose to.

John had been the one to put himself out there, in jeopardy. At risk of being rejected and have what they had come crashing down around him if the consulting detective said no or otherwise rejected him. Not Sherlock, for all that he’d been in an emotional turmoil about it.

So, it was more accurate to say that their roles had been reversed this time around. Which was good and fair and part of the point, he knew that, wanting to show John that he meant this and was willing to put himself in the vulnerable position, too. But it didn’t do anything to make the uncertainty and second guessing any easier to bear.

What it did do, however, was give him a greater understanding of and much greater appreciation for what John had been going through and just how much…courage, for lack of a better term, it would’ve taken for the doctor to go through with it.

Of course, courage and bravery was part of John, even when it tipped into recklessness and bullheadedness but even so…

Sherlock would have to, provided this didn’t go entirely tits up, do something to say thank you to John for being willing to throw himself out there in the first place. Not just that, either, but do so when the recipient was Sherlock himself, an unknown quantity in many ways for John still, that was –

That hadn’t been going out onto the ice, that had been throwing himself over a cliff, with a potentially mocking maw at the bottom of it. It wasn’t something the brunet was particularly proud to acknowledge, but if he had been asked at an earlier point, he wouldn’t necessarily have been receptive and might well have delivered some acerbic comment about it.

In other words, he would have been an utter arse and have ruined it all.

Perhaps he might even still have done something to that effect if Mycroft hadn’t prepared him as he had, and he’d been caught on the wrong foot, as it were, without a present for John, let alone one that was as significant as the padded dressing gown had been. Even if it wouldn’t have been that bad, he couldn’t quite imagine it would’ve gone well.

If his doctor could do that, then Sherlock could bear the uncertainty and more besides without complaint or wish to make it easier to him.

Then he could endure the possibility that he would fail. That he would be rejected, and he would lose John. The thought wasn’t one he wanted to have, abundantly obviously. But as he sat, ostensibly peering at something under his microscope, with less than a week left until Christmas, and his chest burned and cramped and threatened to implode and explode simultaneously at the idea, he realised that he couldn’t escape it. However much he tried to deny it was a possibility, if a negative one,

Much as he couldn’t lose John…he could, and he shouldn’t be a weight around his neck. An albatross, some useless part of his brain informed him.

Not that he wouldn’t do everything in his power to make sure this proposal went off as well and as smoothly as possible so that John would see it for what it was and would be happy to accept. But if it…if it failed, then – he fought the still too-horrible thought but this time, fought to keep it in his mind rather than out of it – then he shouldn’t be…be…

The microscope slide hit the kitchen wall, only inches from hitting something that would’ve…given them a royal mess and a possible explosion, and it splintered with a pathetic little sound that was barely a tinkle.

Nevertheless, John, whose shift had been cut short due to a fire in the adjoining building – they’d been evacuated for the smoke but as it turned out, only one person had needed medical assistance and so they’d gone home – came into the kitchen, looking concerned.

It had been a while since outbursts like this had happened.

Experiment not going well, then?” was all he said out loud, relatively calmly. When Sherlock looked up at him, however, he took in his expression and immediately went over to embrace the brunet, who wrapped his arms tightly around John in turn.

John didn’t ask what the matter was nor was there any unsaid but felt expectation that Sherlock would say what had prompted his reaction and his expression, later if not sooner and preferably sooner, something which most people, if unconsciously, ascribed to.

It was enough that he had a moment of utter frustration and needed the help, the support that the blond was willing to give without hesitation. There never had to be more than that, at any point. Just as John never needed to explain when he held Sherlock painfully tight in the night or couldn’t stand to feel his body warmth, and not merely because the consulting detective could work out what the matter was without needing to ask.

But that they were willing to do this for each other…that John could…

How could he think to jeopardise that with proposing? It wasn’t as though it was strictly _necessary_ , was it? There were other ways to show his partner, his boyfriend that he was in this fully and truly and for a long haul of eternity.

He couldn’t…but he could lose John and that was why he couldn’t lose him. Couldn’t risk it.

But he had to risk it, didn’t he? There was no proper substitute for a proposal and a wedding, a marriage even if it was at the town hall rather than in a church, to signify that your feelings were…

Well, there was. It was only the outer shell, after all. The fripperies around the central sentiment of “I love you enough to want to be tied to you in all the ways I possibly can be and that you’re my first priority that I will not get tired of or abandon”.

That was surely long enough that there was no need for all the fripperies to get it across.

The question was honestly more whether it would come across that way. Whether Sherlock was, without a proposal, able to make John truly believe that he meant it. His doctor was supportive and caring and understanding, yes, far more than Sherlock deserved, no question, but he also had his limits and his issues.

When it came to whether Sherlock ought to be believed or not, it was usually legitimate issues, admittedly, even if he had got better. The point was that it would possibly, no, probably, considering John’s own ideas of commitment and traditions, take nothing short of a proposal to get that through his brain properly.

There was even a chance that it might not get through until they were dancing at the reception.

Oh, fuck, there would be a reception, too, wouldn’t there? It wouldn’t be done with the proposal.

But it might be if John said no or otherwise rejected it.

Sherlock tightened his grip on the other even further at that.

Why couldn’t he let go of it? Why did he keep going back to this one point without getting any conclusion, at least any that would stick? He had made the decision and had even set the wheels in motion, so how come he kept going back and forth?

Lips pressed against his forehead. “Nothing to be sorry for.”

The comment puzzled him immensely. At least, it did until it dawned on him that he kept muttering ‘sorry’ under his breath. Which really only further underlined that he was out of his depth since he never did something like that.

He couldn’t do this. It would have to stop, somehow. There had been put stoppers in along the way so that he could back out of it at a moment’s notice if he should need to and right now, it felt more than needed. It felt crucial in order for him not to lose what he had.

Sherlock let himself be guided up into standing and then led out of the kitchen, through the living room and into their shared bedroom. It wasn’t overly late and certainly, it would be exceedingly early for bed for the two of them, but nevertheless, he agreed to John’s quiet suggestion that they made an early night of it and just…stayed close.

It helped, too. Not only because John’s presence, especially when it was physical as well, always helped, but because Sherlock, as he was given some measure of peace, told himself that he’d reached a conclusion.

But on the other hand, he couldn’t not do this. It was a contradiction, to say the least, but it was nevertheless true.

For now, he needed rest.

* * *

Of course, it was an issue as well that it was December or at least a challenge that needed to be acknowledged and worked around, not to mention bullied through if necessary. It meant that shops were laden with people, shop assistants were harassed, overworked and stressed out, and stock was either un-stock or taken over by the Christmas variety in the tradition of the Norman nobility.

He’d got around some of those by being early and not calling on the usual Christmas fare. Other things necessary for the successful execution of his plan – which had only not got the significance of a capital letter in his head because he wasn’t quite _that_ childish, thank-you-very-much…and because he’d gone back and forth on it so much at that point that it didn’t feel earned – he had needed to call in favours for.

That in itself didn’t bother him. If he shouldn’t call in favours when it concerned his marriage proposal, then when should he? It wasn’t as though they knew he was entirely serious or would rat him out to John.

With all the uncertainty of whether to go through with it or not, however, the time he’d wasted on that, he’d been left with only a very short time before the big day to get the last bits of it sorted and collect what he needed on those favours.

The doubts, fears and utter panic over what to do and how it’d be received hadn’t disappeared either, and he didn’t think they would. Not even if he didn’t go through with it at any point, ever, unfortunately.

It was a realisation he’d come to a few days after he’d thought he’d made the final, conclusive decision to abandon it all. He’d resolutely been abstaining from fiddling with the ring in his pocket up until that point – for fear of John discovering it, he’d kept it on him at all times, even after he’d come to the decision not to – but had given in while sitting up at night, unable to sleep.

That he’d crept up into John’s old bedroom in order to think was a small, irrelevant matter. It certainly had nothing to do with comfort or that John wouldn’t think to look for him here first thing.

He had pulled out the ring from his dressing gown pocket then, and yes, he could understand the relevance and possible significance of that as well even if he couldn’t appreciate it.

It was such a small thing. An insignificant thing that represented so much. That changed so much and yet nothing at all. He didn’t want it to be difficult, let alone this difficult. It shouldn’t be so difficult. What was there to make such a big fuss over? He wanted to live as they had, but possibly even better than they had.

But he wanted to live like they had forever more. To banish all doubt, for John and himself both. If he didn’t do this, that doubt would always hang above him, and them by extension, and that might…well, even if it didn’t poison or otherwise taint the relation over time, it would drain Sherlock.

As soon as the thought to propose entered his head and settled itself down, there was no getting rid of it. It was stuck, and he would always wonder until he either did it or things broke apart after all, despite what he’d wanted to accomplish by not proposing. That it wouldn’t break apart was option but not one that seemed viable. At least, not as viable as he would want it, or he’d believed it to be earlier.

He’d twirled the ring around and played with it, keenly aware of it not falling to the ground.

A moment’s courage or a lifetime of regrets.

He had no idea where those words had come from or why they hadn’t been deleted when he’d heard them, but he couldn’t deny their relevance in the circumstances.

As though to bolster what the words had said, his mind treacherously provided him with images. Images of John, not rejecting him but being happy that Sherlock took this step, lighting up at the sight of the ring. Possibly, he would ask whether this was a joke or what he was playing at but hopefully, the moment he realised that Sherlock was perfectly serious, he would light up.

Another followed right on its heels, of John wearing the ring, as casual and natural as anything. Sherlock’s heart squeezed something terrible at that. Still, it couldn’t hold a candle to the image of their hands, entwined, rings shining against each other.

Together. The two of them. Tied together, by more than just something as banal as a piece of paper. By intent and commitment. By honesty and sincerity.

By love.

Once upon a time, he would’ve gagged. No, honestly, he would’ve torn the notion to shreds and possibly also gagged. But he wasn’t that person anymore, was he? Not quite, no, and he was glad for the change.

Mycroft was right, loath as he was to admit it. John had been good for him. So much more than good.

It was his turn to take the leap that John had, regardless of where it’d lead him. He owed his partner that, just as he owed him to stick to the decision.

Of course, he’d been in this spot before, hadn’t he? This exact spot.

And he’d been adamant about it, too, right up until the point where he’d decided to back out and cancel, and he had then been as adamant if not more so about it. What was to say that he wouldn’t swivel right back around and then the day was suddenly past and he’d missed his chance?

He didn’t need to do it on their anniversary, of course, and it was sentimental to a ludicrous degree that he felt he had to, and yet…

How would he stop himself from backpedalling on it again?

Sherlock hadn’t found the answer, apart from keeping that fear with him at all times, like a dog on a tight leash that would otherwise bolt, causing destruction in its wake. That and the mental image of John lighting up when he saw the ring. Possibly when Sherlock asked the question.

So, he’d moved forward with what parts of the plan he still had. What he hadn’t managed to cancel. Thankfully, it was most of the important things, which, in hindsight, he ought to have wondered about more than he did at the time.

As things stood, there was one thing that fell through, though, and it was one of if not the most crucial part of his plan. There was no way to salvage it, either, at least not in time, and it only rubbed salt in the wound to know that the fire didn’t even have the decency to be an arson case of any kind.

No, it was merely a strange concatenation of circumstances that set fire to the studio where the craftsperson in question worked. Burned all to the ground, though he wasn’t allowed to remark of the incompetence of London’s firemen, apparently, or how they could’ve done a much more effective job of it if they used some other method of putting out the fire. Ideally before it had got to the phosphors and other chemicals that had been at the studio.

He had to be careful, too, that he wasn’t seen to take too much interest in that particular fire rather than any of the others. John would buy that he could be frustrated by the lack of cases and the banality of the criminal fraternity but there was a line where he’d take a more active interest in Sherlock’s interest.

Which wouldn’t do. Sherlock couldn’t risk John working out the smallest bit of this. That he’d gone back and forth and even had a small breakdown – alright, so perhaps a bigger breakdown – was no indicator. His doctor would just ascribe that to Sherlock being Sherlock.

Sometimes, there really were benefits to behaving, or having behaved, more or less awfully, if not outright detestably.

In the end, the woman who’d asked for the favour had apologised profusely. He’d shaken his head and told her it didn’t matter. It was only a thing and he was grateful for the help. He’d even remembered to wish her a merry Christmas.

She’d claimed she hadn’t repaid her debt to him without giving him something. Especially when it was for something as important as that. His attempt at deflection hadn’t worked, either, and she’d claimed she would have something else ready for him. She wouldn’t say what that something was, however, no matter what, only that she would have it ready in time.

Despite her reassurances, he decided to alter the plan somewhat so that he wouldn’t have to rely on what she made. Or rather, he made an alternative plan.

It was a good thing that the other crucial part seemed to be coming together. He’d texted the maker several times since he’d decided to go through with it after all and they had sent him back several photos of the thing under construction. Nearing completion.

Several more of the small things were starting to shape up, too, and the ones that weren’t could be safely ignored or dropped. Perhaps it was for the best, so that it didn’t become an outright production number. There was just one more thing and for that, he needed Mycroft’s help.

He would rather not but on the other hand, it did mean that his brother felt he was being useful. It had been what had ultimately persuaded him that Sherlock had it under control and needed no more frustrating meddling from him.

If that was what it took, then that part of the plan would stay, regardless. Perhaps even if he’d gone through and scrapped the whole thing.

Despite the time of year and all its issues, despite Mycroft’s meddling, despite the uncertainty – outright fear, horrible doubts and sheer panic, was what he ought to have called it but there was no need to be dramatic – despite nearly bailing on the plan and the proposal, despite the fire and everything else, it looked like it might just work.

Everything was coming into place into the plan he had laid out and he couldn’t help but feel giddy about it even as the pit of dread and fear was slowly but surely being dug ever deeper.

He would be able to propose to John in the best way possible. In a way that John would not only recognise but would be appreciative of, so that he would be far more amenable to say yes. It was paramount that he said yes.

Oh, please. Let him say yes. Just let him say yes.

* * *

Had John planned something himself?

The thought came to Sherlock, rather belatedly, he later thought, on the eve of December 23rd, when everything that he had set in motion was ready or would be by the next morning. There was no case on nor any shift that John had to spend his time on, and so they’d had a quiet night together.

Well, relatively quiet. John had had to tell Sherlock that no, Ludo was in fact not intended to be a group of murdering thieves trying to escape with the loot and kill each other on the way, so that you got more loot and notoriety, which the brunet found patently absurd.

Why else would they be running around a whole board in order to get to safety? Safety which, incidentally, was right behind the starting point so if it was about efficiency, then there was no need for the entire board.

A muscle had twitched in both John’s cheek and under his eye at that, but he had swallowed whatever comment or issue was on his lips. Instead, he had suggested that they play checkers, only to find that half the pieces were missing or rather, they had been scattered across the flat as markers in…something, Sherlock couldn’t quite remember what. They were impossible to use as game pieces again, at any rate, at least according to the blond.

By the end, they had rigged up something like their own murder investigation, with the pieces from Cluedo, Ludo and some debris from around the flat, where Sherlock ended up playing his own murder victim but where only John had the crucial clues.

The consulting detective had insisted that as the murdered individual, he ought to know and therefore, the case was solved. John disagreed, but instead of getting angry, he’d been smiling that special warm smile that made his eyes, horribly sappy and sentimental as that sounded, glint and sparkle and sent warmth spilling out through Sherlock’s entire body, more effective than any fire, tea or whiskey.

As that warmth spread, however, he thought he saw something at the depth of those blue eyes. Something…not calculating. Nothing that cynical but nevertheless, something secretive.

Why was that? They weren’t going – well, they were technically going to Mummy’s Christmas Day again this year, as apparently Sherlock had years to make up for and John was an easy target to rope into agreeing, unfortunately. Mycroft had promised to cover for them for a while, though, at the very least. It was all dependent on how this all panned out, of course but his brother was the only one aware of what exactly Sherlock was going to do and would be holding the fort and fielding questions for as long as would be needed.

It helped that what Sherlock had planned wasn’t intended for the morning. That was, he was a little bit early in terms of their anniversary. But that was alright. The less opportunity John had for dragging them off to a ‘family Christmas’ before he could get it underway, the better.

Provided, of course, that he was and hadn’t something else planned, and with the look in his eye, it seemed as though he had.

It had to be for something else, though. Or Sherlock was, in his unusual amount of nervousness and uncertainty, reading too much into it. For all he knew, John could be secretive and pleased with the Christmas present he’d found for Sherlock.

Although…would he hide a ring in that? Theoretically possible and there was something traditional and yet just a bit off-beat about doing it that way. Which would fit John, wouldn’t it? Or had Sherlock miscalculated what was considered classic ways to approach proposing, this time of year or otherwise?

No. No, he was definitely reading too much into it. This would be too early for John to consider something like proposing. Unpredictable and delightfully surprising though he might be, he could also be rather hung up on the right way of going about things and something like proposing…

If he were to propose, it wouldn’t be yet. Perhaps next year when he was…

When he was far surer to have confirmation Sherlock was in it for the long haul, too, and was entirely, thoroughly sincere in his actions and intentions.

That realisation sat like a coal only just pulled out of the fire in Sherlock’s chest, burning a smouldering hole and robbing him of his air.

If he wasn’t sure of what he was doing before, that he should carry on with it and put himself out there, no matter the risk, he most definitely was now.

John should never be in a position where he doubted Sherlock’s commitment or his feelings ever again.

“Sherlock? Have you fallen asleep on me?”

“Of course not, don’t be stupid,” the brunet said, without opening his eyes. He could feel John standing beside him where he lay on the floor as the victim. When had he got up from his chair? “You know perfectly well that I need time to think.”

“Yeah, but usually when I’m in the room, you tell me to bugger off. That I disturb you.”

Sherlock cracked open an eye. To confirm that what he’d deduced about John’s reaction and expression was correct, of course. Nothing more. Of course.

“I haven’t done that in a while.” He knew that came out less confidently than he would’ve wanted it to, but John didn’t seem to mind.

“Point,” the blond said, smiling softly. He looked over the length of the body on the floor. “You figured it out yet, then?”

“Ages ago.”

“Of course. Why did we continue to play, then? Simply to string me along?”

“The term, I think you’ll find, is ‘amuse’,” Sherlock said, sitting up. “You were having fun. So was I,” he added in the knowledge that John would spot that bit. “I think that was rather the point of the exercise. Game. Whichever.”

John pulled him the rest of the way up and wrapped his arms around him. “It was.”

They kissed, long and slow and warm. A kiss during which Sherlock decided that it didn’t matter whether John had found a ring as well. Or even that it could end up a giant but glorious mishmash of the both of them trying to propose at the same time.

Would he prefer it if his plan went off without a stumble or hitch? Yes, of course, and he would probably also think his idea at least a little better than John’s, wrong as he knew that to be. But that wasn’t the point of this.

Nor would it take away the fact that he, Sherlock, would be the one to propose. Would be willing, and seen to be willing, to take that further step into the relationship and its commitments.

Yes. Whatever happened, he would propose.

It was all in place, too. Almost, but near enough.

They parted and grinned at each other. John’s eyes sparkled and when Sherlock told him who the murderer was, he outright grinned.

“Nope. Wrong.”

Sherlock’s face scrunched up in surprised confusion. “What do you mean, ‘wrong’? It’s the only possible solution with the criteria you’ve laid out.” John only continued to smile. “You can’t go changing who the culprit is in the middle of the game, John.”

“What, like you did when we played Risk that one time?”

“I did not change the culprit. There was none.”

“No, you just forgot what game we were playing.”

“I’m dead certain that was how I was taught to play it.” It was only the vaguest of memories, but they were genuine memories. At least as far as he could recall he hadn’t altered or fabricated them. He deleted useless stuff if anything.

“I cannot imagine Mycroft ever sitting down to play a boardgame, let alone something like Risk.” John paused. “No, wait, I take that back. If there was one game, it would probably be that. Or chess. Seems fitting.”

Quite.” Sherlock went in for another kiss, just because he could, thrilling that he could and that he was still thrilled by the prospect. Soon enough, John dragged him off to bed. Just to sleep, mind, because he had an early shift the next day. That was the deal on getting off both Christmas Eve and Christmas Day, along with taking New Year’s.

Sherlock had promised he wouldn’t be pestering the doctor all New Year’s. Mostly without any prompting, either.

So an early night, but that was alright.

It meant more time tomorrow to get the last few things sorted.

He would make it the best possible proposal he could.

For John.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Has this been too much back-n-forth? Dunno, not sure I can muster a care right now, I'm so tired. It's been a lot to write in a short time but I could've started this in better time before Christmas...or learn being brief...  
> And yes, I do realise that his plan isn't actually expounded upon. :)


	3. The Proposal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It was the night of the proposal and all through the flat...Sherlock was nowhere to be found

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eloquent summary that, innit? At least I have the season as an excuse  
> I have written, I have fought and I am so exhausted I want to throw up. But here it is. All 10k words of it. Christ...  
> Thank you to those brilliant and wonderful people who have been kind enough to give this some feedback, especially the comments <3 You have...made sure you got a third chapter and end.

When John finally arrived home after his shift and a last-minute shopping trip on Christmas Eve, laden with bags and cursing under his breath from the sheer amount of time it had taken him to get home – it had been one of those time where everything seemed intent on delaying him, from colleagues wishing him a merry Christmas to the tube being overly crammed to the chip and PIN machine doing a number on him, again, to almost falling over by being shoved through a particularly belligerent crowd to someone trying to help themselves to something in his bags – it was to find the flat dark and seemingly deserted.

That the door was unlocked was no indicator or whether the place genuinely was empty of consulting detective or not, of course. Nor did it make clear that he hadn’t received any texts about a new case that had come up.

To be fair to him, Sherlock had got a lot better about it. Not because he didn’t take cases anymore or did it without remembering to inform John about it. If those had completely gone away, the doctor would’ve been worried that someone had put a doppelganger in Sherlock’s place because that simply wouldn’t be Sherlock Holmes.

That said, it occurred far less frequently than it had and when it did happen, Sherlock caught himself at some point during the first few hours. In fact, the last few times it had happened, he had texted John within the first hour, sometimes before the blond even had a chance to notice he’d gone.

He had also a much better grasp of when he could get away with taking a case, let alone one without informing John of it before he did it, and when it most certainly was a bad idea to try it. Furthermore, and that was probably one of the most surprising and amazing things, he _didn’t then do it, anyway._

This was one of those times, though, and yet, as he looked around the living room and then into the kitchen, there was no sign that Sherlock had been there for hours, at least.

Feeling the beginnings of anger bubble up inside of him, John paused to think before he allowed it to become any more than that. It took a bit of effort, especially with the trip home he’d had, but he managed it. If he was asking Sherlock to change and better himself, then it was only fair that the doctor himself followed suit.

This was a very important date. They had _talked_ about those days and while no, John didn’t expect Sherlock to suddenly remember each and every birthday or other day of note, he had hoped that he would at least acknowledge their milestone.

Sherlock did know that this was their milestone, right? He hadn’t deleted – no, he hadn’t. John knew he hadn’t. There were a lot of things he could believe about Sherlock Holmes and forgetting things he didn’t deem important, however the rest of the world or specific persons felt about it, but…

But not this. Not just because they’d talked about it, though possibly not quite as much as they ought to have, or because Sherlock knew what the repercussions could be, but because the brunet had made an honest effort to listen and remember. He still made mistakes, of course, for various reasons. For all that he tried to deny it, though not as vehemently these days, he was still very much human. But John knew his consulting detective at this point, when he stopped to think about it rather than let his frustration get the better of him.

Sherlock wouldn’t make a mistake on this or otherwise forget. Not at this point in their relationship. The doctor had faith in him.

They had come so far together. _He_ had come so far, and John was proud of him for every single step of the way. There was no need to assume the worst just because he came home to something that he hadn’t expected and that could, potentially, be worrying, though of course, the latter was par for the course, really.

To assume so would be unfair of him. Seriously unfair. He took a deep breath, then other to be sure that he was calm.

But the point remained; where had he got to? If there was no case on, then he ought to be around here somewhere. It wasn’t as if he was particularly keen on going out and celebrating with the greater London population, either – the mere thought of it had a screech of something running down the doctor’s spine – and John had heard or seen no indication that he was visiting Mrs. Hudson.

They weren’t due to go down to her until tomorrow, either, but she might’ve called him in. Only, she hadn’t…he’d have to go and check, just to be sure.

Had he gone to bed early? But he wasn’t a child, for all that he could sometimes act like it.

Nevertheless, John went through the living room, checking once again after he’d switched the lights on, which was something of a hop and dance, what with the mishmash of light sources they’d accrued, and down the hall to the bedroom that had become theirs rather than Sherlock’s.

If he had fallen asleep in their bed, intentionally or not, then calling for him would be…well, John wouldn’t do it, at any rate.

Poking his head in to look, however, revealed no consulting detective, on top of or under the covers. Part of John was simultaneously disappointed and relieved that Sherlock hadn’t got it into his head that he ought to use the opportunity of Christmas to ‘spice up’ their sex life with something like Christmas-themed naughty lingerie or something equally…

Would Sherlock even think of something like that? Possibly not but the ideas he picked up on to try because they counted as ‘normal’ were sometimes baffling and worrying so it wasn’t outside the realm of possibility.

John couldn’t deny that some of the lingerie he’d seen would look good on the slim, tall figure, either. But they had best stay within in his head, as fantasy.

He was just about to close the door again and continue to look for his boyfriend elsewhere in the flat, in the hope that he was still in the flat and just having got himself tied up in something, probably in his brain, when he spotted something.

It wasn’t that the bed was carefully and properly made, even though that was a bit of a surprise on its own, but that on top of the covers and the bedspread, there was…

A piece of paper?

Feeling his heart sink a little despite himself because of the implications of that, John nevertheless moved into the room, curious to see what it could possibly be.

That it had been placed there so carefully rather ruled out accidental droppage. A thought which was born out when he got closer and saw it was, in fact, an envelope, carefully sealed and placed in the middle of the bed.

Halfway between their pillows, in fact. Was there any significance in that? At an earlier time, he would’ve said categorically no, of course not but then, Sherlock had surprised him plenty of times, even on something like this, so he shouldn’t rule it out.

Picking up the envelope, he saw that it was addressed to him. Written out very carefully.

That significantly lowered the likelihood it was a note telling him Sherlock was out on a case. As he said, he preferred to text and it would be so much easier and quicker if he was about to bolt out of the flat after some case or other. To take the time to write something was a grander apology than a text, of course, but still…it seemed unlikely that Sherlock would.

He most definitely wouldn’t have spent time putting it in an envelope or written John’s name so carefully. In full, too.

And it was Sherlock’s handwriting, too. The blond had lived with him for too long not to recognise it as his and nobody else’s.

What was going on? Was this some sort of payback for the game they’d played the day before? But that had been Sherlock’s idea as much as his.

Had he been kidnapped and forced to write this out by the kidnappers? But he would’ve left some other clue, then, if he’d been given that much time.

Perhaps he should just open the ruddy letter instead of sitting there, speculating. He wasn’t Sherlock, he couldn’t deduce someone’s sad childhood from the way they slanted their e’s.

Pushing away any further speculations in favour of solid proof, hopefully, John slid it open and pulled out the neatly folded letter, a further nail in the coffin, especially as it was neatly written, too.

Not that it said much.

_‘John,_

_I know you’re tired and want to go to bed. But I need you to do this one thing for me. Don’t worry, it’s not a case. It is important, however, otherwise I wouldn’t ask you. Not on this day. I need you to go to your old room first.’_

First? What did he mean, ‘first’? But it did at least somewhat confirm that Sherlock hadn’t forgotten what day it was. Or presumably, what day it was tomorrow, depending on how late the other expected John to get home.

John did want to go sleep. It had been a long day, in several ways, and he wanted to enjoy Christmas tomorrow as much as he possibly could. It would be brilliant to just enjoy the holiday together with his boyfriend, the first as a couple – well, the first that didn’t involve a ton of nerves about what he’d done – and get to wake up together on Christmas morning.

As long as Sherlock wasn’t home and he didn’t know where he was or why he was out, though, he wouldn’t be able to go sleep, let alone sleep soundly. Then he would merely lie awake, waiting for some clue as he tried to work out what had happened. He wouldn’t be angry, but it would end up with him getting fed up and throwing the covers off to go and find Sherlock.

If he wasn’t alright, then he would rescue him. That was what he did. Well, part of it. If he was alright and just pulling some kind of stunt, then…

John would deal with that when he got there, and hopefully, it would be the right response.

The fact that Sherlock had been acting a little peculiar, more so than what was within normal parameters for him, wasn’t one that had escaped John’s notice. That said, it had been difficult for him to gauge why exactly that was and even though he’d tried to subtly ask and even work out something from Sherlock’s at times nervous, even rattled, behaviour and expression, he had got no further.

John could text him, of course, but that was a hit-and-miss tactic still, though he had improved significantly. If he’d decided to do this, whatever this was, by hand, as it were, then he was likely either not inclined or not allowed to use his phone.

His best option right now, it seemed, was to follow Sherlock’s instructions and see where it lead him.

Before he went up to the upstairs bedroom, and he wasn’t stalling because of memories that hung around that room, he gave himself a once-over check.

Sherlock wouldn’t be requiring him to stay in, not when he himself wasn’t in. Well, technically it was possible, but it was unlikely.

Knowing his partner, however, he might be sending him somewhere…well, it could as well be through seven more shops for something stupid to running through an abandoned tube line – discovering that someone had wanted to…have the Necropolis line fulfil its function again and was killing people to accomplish it had been…an interesting case, to say the least – to attending a high society Christmas do.

That he had taken the time to write a letter like this would seem to preclude the first but John had learned over his time with the detective not to take too much for granted. A few things he still did, possibly to his detriment, but on most things, he’d learned some degree of flexibility.

The point was that he would need to wear something that could feasibly fit into all eventualities, with the caveat that no matter that he picked the nicest button-down and pullover he owned, it wouldn’t do for the high society thing, not even if he put a blazer over it. Which he wouldn’t. If he needed to run around, he would need some flexibility to his outfit.

He compromised by picking a jumper that Sherlock had bought for him, because then he could at least throw it back that it was his own choosing.

Once he’d redressed, with a speed and precision that only the habit of the military could bring about, he paused.

Should he bring the gun? Sherlock had said it wasn’t a case and there had been nothing hurried or urgent about his phrasing or his writing. At the same time, the younger Holmes had a knack for getting himself into trouble in the time it took other people to sip their tea.

In the end, he decided against it. Why exactly he did, he wasn’t able to say.

Well, he would see what was up in his old room and then decide from there.

_If you’ve gone and got yourself hurt, Sherlock, I’m…I’m…_

He swallowed the rest of that thought and moved. The letter was stuffed into his inner jacket pocket.

Time to go find his boyfriend and find out what this was all about.

* * *

If anyone asked, Sherlock was perfectly alright with waiting for John to get here. Even if it might take a while for him to reach this place, it wasn’t as though it was particularly cold or even uncomfortable. This was a place that was intended for lounging about on, after all, though normally, it was for warm summer nights. Or, given that this was London, anything that vaguely approached warm summer nights. Hot was a concept in a magazine.

The possibility that he might not get here at all was one that Sherlock tried not to think of but which he couldn’t shake in its entirety. Enough so that he’d gone over possible reasons why he might not make it here, including that he just didn’t want to. That latter one he’d pushed away with everything he had. It was unnecessary and unrealistic.

He surely knew John better than that.

As for the rest, though…with his focus on squashing the one into nothing, they slipped in through various cracks and asked their questions.

Had he made it too elaborate? Too obscure? Perhaps too simple or too obvious? Was it too early to do it now? It was, after all, just about pushing midnight, so it was barely Christmas Day and therefore their anniversary.

Once or twice, he’d picked up his phone in order to check whether he’d been left any messages for him. Unfortunately, there’d only been one and that had been from Mycroft, wishing him good luck, of all things.

Alright, so he’d been tempted to check where John was once or twice as well. Perhaps a bit more than that but could he be blamed for that? Probably but who cared? The important thing was that he hadn’t done it. He’d been tempted but had refrained from that temptation, not just once but several times, and that had to count for something, too.

It had to.

John could’ve got held up at any number of places, more than Sherlock had calculated with, and that was before he’d even got home. He might not have noticed anything odd at first, either, and gone about his routine, which could’ve added another…six to fourteen minutes, depending on how far into it he got before he clocked it.

That wasn’t to say John was slow on the uptake, mind. Sherlock truly didn’t believe he was, even if he was bad at remembering to communicate that. He was merely a creature of habit, as much as he was one that needed to be pushed to his edges. Plus he was used to rolling with the punches

Should Sherlock have made it simpler, though? Not given this whole thing as many stops along the way? perhaps he ought to have not put any stops at all but led him straight here?

Wouldn’t that have lessened the impact of what he’d done? It would definitely have compromised if not outright ruined the plan and that wouldn’t do.

Sherlock blinked as he caught the thought. Surely not? The plan didn’t come ahead of…no. It couldn’t. It didn’t. Nor would it ever or any other plan. If it ever had, that stopped right now.

The only sense in which the plan came first was that he’d designed it so that John would be as…amenable to what he had set up, what he was planning to do up here when the doctor finally got here.

Which was why he had set it up so that he would be getting one text, when John left the last place that he was meant to go to that would send him here. He’d debated with himself whether that was necessary or even if he should rather not have anything at all but…

Still, he was fidgety. Nervous, honestly, but fidgety was part of that. He had thought John would’ve made it to that point…twenty minutes ago, according to the time, at the very latest and yet, he had not had a single text from the person. She wouldn’t forget.

All of this certainly would’ve been easier and with less unknowns in the mix if he hadn’t had to rely on other people for parts of it. The studio fire being a case in point. On the other hand, he couldn’t deny, nor had he any wish to, that it had made things possible that otherwise wouldn’t have been and what they had created for him was…

Beautiful.

There was no other word for it.

His hand went down to his coat pocket for what was probably the umpteenth time, just that evening, and closed around the box. The very special box. Even though it did have a twin, or a mirrored sibling, at any rate, it was still very much unique and unquestionably special.

It was also somewhat delicate so he really oughtn’t be fiddling with it so much. There were mechanisms in there that could break, and even if they weren’t irreparable, they weren’t fixable right this minute, which they would need to be for the thing to work when it was meant to work. Which was paramount, to say the least.

He still couldn’t quite help at least running his finger across it a few times, just to reassure himself that it was there. That he was doing what he’d set out to do and this was real rather than a dream. It somewhat felt like a dream to him, still, but then again, in his more…fanciful moments, sometimes this whole relationship could.

Which was never something he wanted to dwell on. It wasn’t productive, it wasn’t helpful and it left him feeling adrift and dizzy.

Out across the city, the chimes of midnight echoed, with a quiet loudness that, up this high, was in fact still audible and, more than that, it was able to cut through the background noise of the street and all the people in the city, living their lives.

It was now Christmas Day.

“Merry Christmas, John,” Sherlock found himself whispering, his hand closing around the box as he stared out across the buildings and streets, in the direction that the doctor ought to be taking. “And happy anniversary.”

He was being ridiculous. It wouldn’t be that much longer, no matter how much the former soldier was held up, for one reason or another, before John got here. Then he could say it to his face instead of thin air.

The notion that he might’ve lost John before he got to say it to his face was brutally shot down with frustrated annoyance at how it managed to resurface over and over again, no matter what he did. At least he recognised it almost immediately and consequently didn’t allow it to sprout now, though that was meagre comfort at the moment.

He would say it to John. To his face and with no hesitation. Ideally, he would say it while the blond had his arms wrapped around him, beaming at him after having said yes to his proposal, but Sherlock wasn’t picky. He would take any version of that ended with John smiling.

With John saying yes, too, of course. That was also…that rather went before everything else.

Even if everything else went wrong, so long as John said yes, and meant it, then it was all alright. It was all that mattered. Sherlock could be happy, then. Not that he hadn’t been happy up to – oh, why did he have to qualify each statement all of a sudden? It was maddening in its uselessness, not to mention its completely baffling mystery origin.

Still, he would be far happier when all this was over and his nerves had proved entirely groundless. Which they would. Of course they would. There was no…if he’d done it right, then it would…

Enough already!

Only, it wasn’t enough. His mind kept circling it, like you might trace around a constant itch that you need to scratch but don’t dare to in case you break something. Like a case he couldn’t get to the root of or even to a thread of that he could start to tug at.

Just look at his uselessly colourful metaphors positively overflowing for a clue as to how utterly ridiculous and bad it had got. There he went again!

And it would keep on circling it until this got a resolution, one way or the other. He knew that, too.

Perhaps he should’ve just kept it at the box in which the ring rested. Left it on John’s chair or in the tea box or something. Somewhere John was bound to stumble across it in his just-got-home routine. He would then open it and see the ring and…

Then he could react however he wanted to because Sherlock could, and would, have hidden himself away somewhere, either in their bedroom, John’s room or possibly down in 221C. He wouldn’t leave the building, of course, even though he’d want to, but he wouldn’t be there to see the other’s face.

That way, he couldn’t see John’s reaction. Couldn’t see the could but wouldn’t have to face the bad, either. It would be up to John to decide what to do, then. Whether he wanted to see Sherlock or not.

He wouldn’t have to see when his heart was…

It was a wonder, considering everything in his mind coming together in a vortex of a shambles, taking his poor heart with it for the ride, that he managed to spot John exactly as he came out onto the roof.

All of sudden, out of the blue, he seemed to be braving those last few steps and stepping out onto the decking area.

That wasn’t entirely true, of course.

Sherlock and Mycroft had picked a terrasse that was not too big or too extravagant, which had been easier to get hold of in any case though that wasn’t an issue as such, and where the seating arrangement was placed just so. It meant that no matter where Sherlock placed himself, he would be able to see John.

The fact that the doctor might not be able to see him at first glance was a good extra, especially now, in his momentary mental absence, where it afforded him just that second longer to get his mind back into working order.

Not only that, but he had a chance to get the lights ready. Well, one particular set of lights, at any rate. They were very important, and not just because they lit up what he wanted to be lit up while keeping him in darkness. Or even that they almost hadn’t made it here in time, what with the fire and the need to think of something else.

Ideally, though, John wouldn’t notice that they had been a last-minute replacement for what had been planned to be there.

He wouldn’t be turning them on just yet, however, at least not the ones that had been especially made. It had been something he’d considered but had ultimately decided against it, just as he had, quite vehemently, vetoed Mycroft’s tacky suggestion that they should spell out something.

If they did that, then he might as well have gone into John’s work with flowers all around and blaring some ghastly, utterly inane love song from his phone, and have it be over and done with. Quite literally, too, in all probability.

He’d almost written as much to Mycroft but had opted against it. Mycroft had been helping him, after all, and Sherlock owed him. The fact that his brother hadn’t lorded that over him yet was…quite honestly, it was worrying rather than comforting.

It would be something he’d get to and, like with the rest, there would be compound interest.

Sherlock would still, in his heart if nowhere else, consider that a worthy payment for this. Even if it turned out badly.

John’s trip had evidently been hampered by more than traffic, both human and vehicular, or even the various stops and people on those stops wanting to chat with him. His leg was bothering him, just a little bit, which worried Sherlock, for quite obvious reasons.

He tried not to extrapolate from that – there was no tenseness in the shoulders, at least none that couldn’t be explained by the general tiredness and exertion the doctor had put himself through in the last few weeks, and as far as he could see, with the way his head was angled, there was no tightness in his expression, just some exhaustion, which was to be expected – but wasn’t entirely sure he succeeded.

One thing that didn’t help was that he…hadn’t been sent emptyhanded from any of the places Sherlock had sent him to visit with his little…Mycroft had called it a scavenger hunt. Which it wasn’t. It most definitely was not a scavenger hunt. It made it sound as if he’d been after…after something of lesser worth.

That Sherlock might, at another point, have called it a scavenger hunt himself, had it not been for Mycroft’s use of the phrase, was an entirely irrelevant point.

So, John was now carrying a few things. Sherlock hadn’t been so cruel as to make him outright laden or the like – he could learn his lesson, couldn’t he, even if it had taken him a lot longer than it ought to in order to properly understand? – but still, it had ended up being more than a few different things and this building’s elevator only went up so far.

Had he shot himself in the foot with that? There was significance to what John had collected, and Sherlock had thought he’d appreciate it, but would he? Had it instead been too much? The proverbial straw?

John didn’t look as though he was exactly struggling under the strain or anything like that but that wasn’t necessarily any indicator.

He was stubborn like anything and could be just as pig-headed as Sherlock – there, he could admit that he was pig-headed, too – about what he could and couldn’t do when he felt like it. It was just that John tended to express it differently from Sherlock and often for other reasons, as well, even though one was perfectly capable of driving the other to pig-headed stubbornness they hadn’t planned on.

Even taking that into account, though, there were no bodily signs that he was struggling to carry what Sherlock had made him bring.

Still, the brunet needed to be sure that that wasn’t the case, one way or another.

John finally looked up fully from his concentrated walk up the stairs without his hands free. That meant Sherlock could see his face in full for the first time since spotting him, though the blond still couldn’t see him from where he stood, and he inwardly breathed a tremendous sigh of relief at the expression on the other’s face.

It wasn’t one of annoyance, frustration, thinly stretched patience or any of the other emotions that Sherlock had been secretly worried, or, more accurately, terrified would be there. Anger in particular was the one he’d been scared of and it wasn’t there.

Of course, the most potent of John’s angers wasn’t when he spluttered and rumbled or even roared like a volcano but when he went entirely calm and just a little bit cold or at least, coolly pleasant.

But neither version of anger was present in the doctor’s face then, no matter how closely the younger Holmes looked. It wasn’t quite an elated or happy expression he might’ve been secretly hoping for either, that much was true.

However, he would honestly and quite happily take the slightly wary, somewhat suspicious but evidently anticipatory and the tiniest bit, though that might be Sherlock overreaching or otherwise seeing and interpreting things that weren’t there, of hope that he could see on John’s face.

Sherlock didn’t notice it but the sigh was outwardly as well as inwardly and it was only sheer luck that it didn’t carry enough that John was alerted to his presence. His precise whereabouts, at any rate, because it was clear that John knew Sherlock was around here somewhere. Which was good. He just didn’t need him to spot him immediately, that was all.

The blond moved forward, slowly and carefully, taking in as much of his surroundings as possible, even though the roof and the immediate surroundings weren’t lit – another small favour from Mycroft that would cost him with dividends – keeping alert.

Sherlock couldn’t help but smile at that. There was something comforting in the fact that some things never left John, no matter how long he spent back in ‘civilian life’. Admittedly, the consulting detective was a great factor in making sure of that as well, but even so…

He was about in the right place, though, for him to stand just perfect for seeing what Sherlock’s contact had come up with as a substitute after the fire. Which, while not what he’d had in mind at all, was everything she’d said it would be, including better than the original.

Two more steps, then he was right there.

One.

There!

He pressed the button to the remote control, unconsciously praying that it lit up as it should, all the way through. It had been a bit of an operation to get it set up, as far as he’d been told, and there were a lot of lights that had to work.

Watching John’s face, it seemed as though it did. After the initial, split-second reaction of not knowing what was happening and therefore trying to prepare for the worst, that familiar, beloved, guarded yet so wonderfully expressive face lit up, almost despite itself. The eyes widened a little and the mouth opened in first an ‘oh’ and then a slowly spreading smile.

He turned on the spot, slowly, trying to take it all in. Sherlock took his cue.

When John’s impromptu slow-motion pirouette came to a complete circle as well as a stop, it was to find his friend, partner and lover almost right in front of him, looking as utterly put together and stylish as he would have had they been going to any client of a worthwhile case.

That he wasn’t feeling as composed and put together on the inside was an irrelevant aside, surely.

“You mad bastard,” John said, and Sherlock’s heart skipped a beat or more than that, not unpleasantly, like a stone skipping across water, at the tone and expression on his face. “What are you playing at?”

Sherlock didn’t answer. He had to concentrate. It wasn’t exactly difficult, but he had to be absolutely and utterly sure he got this right, after all. Just because he’d seemed to ace it so far, which he was beyond relieved and grateful for, wasn’t any reason to get cocky and think he had it all sorted. That way lay mistakes and he couldn’t afford any of those.

This had to go right all the way.

John watched him, puzzlement creeping into his features. He put what he’d been holding onto down onto the ground beside him, though his eyes didn’t leave the detective, which meant that he barely missed dropping most of it.

“Is this meant to celebrate our anniversary, love? If it is, then…well, I’m grateful, of course I am, and it’s truly sweet and thoughtful.” Still no answer. “But you didn’t have to go to these lengths to prove that you can remember it or be thoughtful about it without needing to be prompted about it, you know.”

Clever, wonderful John. Of course he would spot that bit of all things.

“I know you try, and just the fact that you think about it is – “

He cut himself off, with something of a click of teeth, as he watched Sherlock pause less than a foot from him out on the open part of the decking he was standing on, and, with a rather elegant slide, slip down onto the ground.

Onto one knee, in particular.

Sherlock watched John’s expression as he did so. Watched it incredibly closely, for any sign, however microscopic, that the other was not on board with this development, after all. Any sign at all.

At this point in the proceedings, he could hardly pull the plug on the operation. He had tried to specifically design the plan so that he could back out at any stage should he get cold feet or the various stopping points had reported an angry or otherwise negative John Watson when he came to visit them.

That had been part of the reason why he’d sent him around the city like that in the first place, after all. Even when he’d stepped out onto the decking, Sherlock could’ve pretended not to be there or, if he wanted to be seen or it was later, he could’ve called it wanting to make sure their first anniversary was remembered and duly celebrated.

John would’ve clearly believed him and that could’ve been that. Saved by expectations, the ring left to burn a hole in his pocket in its special box.

The moment he slipped onto one knee, however, there really was no going back. Sherlock knew what it meant, and John most definitely knew what it meant. It was quite the widely recognised and understood symbolism.

If he put the brakes on it now, the doctor would still be well aware of what Sherlock had tried to do, which would have the same effect, if not worse, than just braving it and following through to the end.

No turning back, so he was unable to help trying to gauge how the other was taking it.

Was that a twitch of anger under one eyelid? No, that trembling was for something else. There was definitely a frown of disbelief etched into the folds of his brow, though, even if it were relatively light. The folds were, at any rate.

Part of Sherlock, albeit a very small part, felt rather indignant at that disbelief. Was it really that unbelievable, even when he was in a position such as this, that John had to react like that?

Yes. It no doubt was, much as that hurt to realise, let alone admit. The indignance was born of hurt, too, but John was well within his rights, for lack of a better term, to show some disbelief at what was happening in front of him.

After all, had you asked Sherlock less than half a year prior, he would’ve given you a similar look, if significantly stronger than it. Perhaps only a few months ago, to be honest, or even shorter.

It was just as well, then, that he could think pretty fast and go through the necessary mental steps much quicker and more efficiently than most.

Still, much as he understood why John would react like that, it didn’t mean it was easier to see it manifest on his face

Trying to make his unavoidable swallow as invisible as he could, Sherlock slipped his hand out of his coat pocket slowly and carefully, so he could get to the lid open, with just one hand, but not open it all the way. Meanwhile, he reached out and grabbed hold of John’s left hand.

Which was shaking just a little bit. Was that a -?

Yes. It was. As was the fact that John, well aware of what Sherlock was doing – he had to be, at this point, it was fairly blaring it all out – hadn’t pulled away, protested or otherwise tried to halt proceedings. His expression didn’t indicate shock, either, or having frozen up.

In fact, Sherlock thought he saw the hope from before gradually bloom in the blue eyes he loved so much. Delight, too, he believed, though possibly that was a trick of the light around them, which lit up the doctor’s face in a very pleasing way.

The hand in his had curled its fingers around his, too, though, holding on, a much clearer sign.

He wasn’t home and dry yet and couldn’t afford to relax and definitely not to get confident or cocky, but that was…

Honestly, that was more than he could’ve hoped for, let alone expected to see.

He’d had…not quite a speech but still some words prepared for doing this. Things he wanted to make absolutely clear about the decision beforehand, so that John would be in no doubt that he meant this with all his heart. That he was doing it for John, for himself and for them. Because he wanted to.

Because he loved him. Loved him more than he had thought was possible in this world, and if that wasn’t a mindboggling concept for Sherlock Holmes, then…

The moment he opened his mouth coincided with his finger slipping and popping open the lid of the box all the way.

Which in turn set the mechanism inside it into operation, turning the ratchet and in turn the cylinder as well as the other small gears and cogs, sending the music out into the air.

John’s eyes focused on it immediately, thus robbing Sherlock of his moment to speak.

As luck would have it, all was quiet around them when the lid opened, and the mechanism began turning. Enough so that even though the relatively small thing wasn’t capable of great sound, though significantly stronger than expected from such a thing, the melody it played was clearly audible in the air between them.

Blue eyes widened to an almost comical degree, as somehow did the rest of his face, though whether it was due to the song playing or what came up out of the depths of the box, rotating slowly as it rose wasn’t clear to Sherlock in the moment.

Most likely it was both equally. In any case, the important thing was that this was his reaction at all and that it was a positive one as well.

Sherlock would have to admit, though it couldn’t be said to be with any reluctance on his part, that he’d created a very beautiful tune for John the year before. Of course, he’d known that at the time but it was still something to hear it played by someone, something else, a year on and find it just as good as he had at the time. Just as beautiful and as fitting for John and his feelings for him.

For any artist or creator, there is a distinct risk, if not outright certainty, that time will lessen your opinion of your own work, to the point where all you can see are the faults and other issues, leaving you to utterly despise what you’ve made, unable to comprehend how you could ever have liked that piece to begin with, let alone thought it good.

This was supposed to signify that you’ve grown as an artist and creator.

That wasn’t the case, now, even when he took the time to listen closely and critically to it, as he hadn’t quite when he’d received the box. Of course, some of the nuances were lost or diminished by the fact that it was a music box, but he was rather impressed with how well it managed it and how little was lost.

The melody continued to play as John stared at the box, his grip on Sherlock’s fingers tightening gradually even as his hand trembled, his throat working and his eyes got progressively shinier, though that might in part still be the snowflakes made of light twinkling all around them in the set-up Sherlock’s contact had created.

Sherlock had made the exact right choice, he’d say, and possibly not just with the box itself, either. A stone fell from his heart without his conscious knowledge.

After what felt like hours but couldn’t have been more than a few minutes at most, John lifted his eyes up to meet Sherlock’s.

“You mad bastard,” he said, and his voice came out hoarse and crackling but fit to bursting, nevertheless, with delight and warmth and love. “You utter mad bastard. Is this what you’ve been so worried about the last month?”

So he had noticed. Of course he’d noticed, he wasn’t stupid or as unobservant as the consulting detective pretended, but Sherlock still hadn’t expected him to notice that…to notice all the little details or connect them.

Apparently not enough for him to wok out this was what Sherlock had been planning, though, thankfully. Then again, to call it coming from left field for the younger Holmes was an understatement, to say the least, much as he didn’t like to admit it.

Why left field, anyway?

“John, I know that it’s probably not something you’ve considered and you are free to say no, but – “

Wait, what? What the hell was he saying? That wasn’t what he had intended, much less wanted to say. It was still true, but that wasn’t how he was supposed to start it off. If anything, this was going to undermine it.

Oh, bugger it all to hell! One moment of inattention, of letting his mouth run off without guidance, and all that he had carefully worked on fell down around him.

No. No, wait. There was still time to salvage it. All he had to do was continue to speak, quickly, continue as though he’d meant to say that and then get onto what he’d in fact meant to say. It wasn’t as though he hadn’t done that before and made it look entirely intentional.

“– I would ask, in complete seriousness and sincerity, if you would consent to – “

He didn’t get any further than that, much as he tried to; in what seemed like a split-second, he was enveloped in an embrace tight enough to crack every rib he had. John’s cheek pressed into his neck as the doctor dropped to his knees as well.

John?” Sherlock said and he couldn’t work out whether he was asking, protesting or just fishing for any sort of clue or if it was perhaps a mix of all three.

This wasn’t – there was still so much he hadn’t said. Why did the stupid lid have to pop open before he was ready for it to?

Why had he allowed it to put him off of what he’d been planning to say? He’d had it all prepared in his head, all he had to do was –

He almost missed what John said next in his mental flagellation, even though it was the most important thing of all.

"Yes.”

"What?”

Alright, so perhaps that was neither very eloquent or very helpful. He could admit that, at least afterwards when he could think. But the answer, the one he’d been so fervently hoping for and never quite able to believe that he would get, came when he was already feeling wrong-footed and off-balance, emotionally and metaphorically speaking.

John pulled back so he could look the other in the eye, his face fighting a battle between caring incredulity and utter joy.

“You heard me. I know you heard me, you berk, I can see it in your eyes. But yes. The answer is yes, and if it wasn’t meant as a proposal, then I don’t care, I’ll propose myself if I have to. And if it’s a joke of some kind or for a case, I swear I’ll – “

“No!”

John blinked at the outburst, then frowned, puzzled and just a little bit wary. Which, while not something Sherlock could blame him for, wasn’t something that he liked to see, either. Even less so when it was something he was to blame for and that he’d even predicted himself.

“No, I’m not joking and it’s not for a case,” Sherlock therefore hastened to say, almost tripping over the words in order to get them out fast enough. “I promise you, John, it’s nothing like that. I wouldn’t do – I know better than that and I promise that I’d never do that to – “

He was cut off at that and quite effectively so, at that. Even the most eloquent – though that had been so far from eloquent that it almost reached Lestrade levels, even if not quite Anderson levels – would struggle to be understood when their lips wasn’t just covered but outright caught, with no demand for a ransom.

Not that he didn’t enjoy it or kiss back with as much fervour as he could possibly give. As much as he was given, in fact.

Well, at least until John started to kiss him in earnest. Then it was difficult to keep up with, to be honest. Sherlock needed something to hold onto for this, but his hands were occupied.

When at last the doctor pulled back, it was with a beam of a smile that could’ve powered the entire borough around them for the rest of the year, if not well into the new one.

“Yes,” he said. “Yes, and bloody well yes.”

“So I take it that the answer’s yes, then?” Sherlock said, with a cocky smirk that was about as deep as the membrane of a soap bubble and as easily popped.

John gave him a look at that, but the beaming smile broke through almost the moment the look manifested. There were no doubt about the tears now, but as they were tears of joy, evidently, that was alright. More than alright.

It wasn’t as though the brunet was in any position to call him out on it, in any case.

For a long moment, they sat there, caught in the moment and suspended in the joy and happiness of the situation.

Of the love.

It had worked. Against all his worries, all his fears and his partial certain belief that he would lose John to this, it had worked. Sherlock had managed to propose, even if he hadn’t got it right in the way he’d hoped and had planned it, and John had, despite the hiccups and everything he’d feared, accepted it.

There could be no doubt that he’d said yes. Hell, he’d even said it several times, presumably just to make sure.

Possibly because he knew Sherlock would worry about it? It would make sense that John would pick up on that sort of thing, after all, and the way he gripped and caressed the bony hand in his was a clue in itself.

At some point after a small eternity had passed Sherlock noticed that the box had at last stopped playing, though exactly when that was, he had no idea. It did, however, bring his attention back to the box and by extension, the ring inside.

Oh. Right. Yes. Of course. There was one more step to it, wasn’t there?

Shifting himself into a better position, he took the hand he was still holding and brought it up between them, in full view of them both.

Then, with a dexterity that surprised even him a little bit, he got the ring out of the box with one hand, without dropping or even tipping the box. It was cold in his hand and he curled his hand around it for a second.

There was no comment or other sound as he then lifted the left hand a little further and, without so much as glancing up at the other to check his expression – if he did, he would falter or do something he shouldn’t, he knew it, and once was enough for that kind of behaviour – slipped the ring onto the appropriate finger.

It fit. Better than a glove, as that was malleable while this was not and yet…

Not only did it fit in terms of size and proportions to the rest of the finger and hand, as Sherlock had known it would without needing to physically measure a thing, but it fit in materials and style as well, if he did say it himself. Which he did.

He had been entirely right. It was perfect for John.

That wasn’t to say the doctor was of the same opinion, though, of course, and so Sherlock braved looking up at John’s face again.

He just about got a look at the expression on the other’s face before he was once again more or less attacked with a kiss.

A snog, more accurately, and one which honestly made him want to pull John into his lap, location and time of day be damned. It wasn’t as though it’d be their first time…

It was neither the time nor the place, though, and especially not what the occasion was for, and so he pulled the hand that had started to wander down back.

Later.

John seemed to realise it, too, and pulled away. Not far, though, and he rested their foreheads together, looking into pale eyes.

“You berk,” he said, and his tone was beyond fond. “I was bloody afraid you’d been kidnapped or something when I first saw that message on the bed. Then you send me running across the entire city after things, for no good reason, apparently, and without any logic to it, either.”

He picked up the bottle of wine he’d brought for emphasis. Sherlock didn’t say anything. There was a logic to it, and he was just a tiny bit saddened that John hadn’t picked up on that.

Alright, more than a tiny bit, admittedly, because they were meant to showcase that Sherlock had been paying attention, not just in the last year but throughout their acquaintance, so to speak, and had let it have space in his memory throughout that time as well.

That he had cared and still did care about John and their time together. Enough to remember such things.

But if he had to pick, he would more than happily take John not understanding the reasoning but being willing to go through with it all, nevertheless, and then liking and accepting his proposal up here. Especially the accepting.

So long as he accepted and did it genuinely, as it were, then everything else could’ve gone to hell and it wouldn’t have mattered.

“Then, just as I think this is all because you’ve got ‘the right way’ to have a first anniversary all mixed up or haven’t had the first clue and is all at sea…that you’ve found a way to say it without having to be there yourself because you’ve got scared of it all halfway through, you send me all the way up here and greet me with…well, all this.”

He shook his head. “For a moment, I thought you had gathered everyone and brought them up here to celebrate Christmas with us and you’d made me go pick these up to make it a little bit more special for us as well.”

Oh.

“Only, why I’d think you’d enjoy that is…anyway, this is so much better than having to entertain a whole bunch of people, never mind having to go through a party both on Christmas Eve and on Christmas Day.”

“You wouldn’t want a lot of people to witness you saying yes?” It was meant as a joke, nothing else. Sherlock had planned it this way for a reason, after all.

Despite the teasing tone, John evidently thought about it. “Honestly? No. Not because I don’t want them to know, mind. I just don’t want anyone to ruin this moment for me in any way.”

He kissed Sherlock again, as though to underline his point.

“You’ve snogged me before in front of them,” the brunet pointed out when they parted. “In front of just about everyone we know, to the point that – “

Yeah, alright, I get it. More to this than that, though. Don’t need anyone making coos or sniggers or dumb remarks.” He leaned close again. “Just need you here and the knowledge that you did all this for me.”

Only for you, John.” There went the first tear trickling down his cheek like someone making a run for it. He didn’t chase it. “Only ever for you.”

"And you’re sure, love?”

Wait, what?

Sure? Of course I’m – you don’t think I’d do this, all of this, if I were still weighing the options?” Alright, so perhaps his tone was the minutest bit snappy. Could he be blamed for that? Well, possibly, but… “That I would – “

No, but I think you might if you thought that was what was supposed to happen, or you were afraid that I’d rethink this relationship because it wasn’t going fast enough. Something like that, you might end up with the idea that you ought to propose.”

Sherlock felt his throat constrict, his eyes widen and something harsh and acidic bubble in the pit of his stomach, preparing to be spit out in a defensive attack. He forced it down, though, knowing that it was fuelled by hurt and how painfully accurate John had managed to be.

It was part of his worry, after all, even if it was anything but true. Never had been and never would be.

“I…I can see that, yes,” he managed to say, quite calmly, for which he was rather proud. “However, I’m not. Doing it for any of those reasons. I promise. I…”

He had to swallow again and take a deep breath to keep his gaze on the other. How could this still feel so very vulnerable and soul-baring, even when he had already got the result he’d hoped for? When he was supposed to be safe and dry, as it were.

“I want you to be part of my life, John, and to know that…that I am committed to this. To our relationship. I’m not going to get bored or reconsider this whole relationship thing, not now nor later. That I can take the initiative, too, rather than…”

Another pause, though smaller, before he ploughed on, though he had to lower his gaze a little. This still wasn’t the speech he’d prepared but he thought he got most of it out. The rest, he could say, later, when his mind and body wasn’t a jumble of just about half the emotions known to man. “You are my other half, John, in almost every way possible. I…I love you and I want you to know that. Never be in doubt that I do.”

He took John’s left hand – when had he dropped it in the first place? – and turned the ring around on it. It really did look beautiful and perfect.

“So yes, I’m sure. Utterly and completely sure of what I’ve done and said.”

Then he looked up at his doctor and smiled.

Only to find John having lost the battle with not only one tear but a whole little regiment of them, marching down his cheeks, the light turning them into little crystals to make the decorations.

“You – “he began, then had to stop and try again. No word came out this time.

Sherlock was the one to initiate a kiss this time and John fell into it gratefully.

When they parted, the younger Holmes tugged gently at the other’s hands. In unison, they managed to get upright and without any major mishaps, either. Then John bent right back down again to pick up the things he’d put down.

“Still a bit puzzled as to – “he began. Then his face did something strange as a realisation dawned.

“Oh.” He turned to Sherlock. “These weren’t random at all. They’re from…from all the…that’s why it was Angelo’s…how did I not see…?”

It was his turn to swallow and hard, at that, to the point that it almost looked painful. “Fuck’s sake, Sherlock. You did all of this, just to propose?”

Sherlock frowned, not understanding the comment or its implications and admittedly couldn’t help but worry just a little bit about it as a result.

Should he not have done it all? No, he didn’t think so…he’d wanted to do it this way, quite apart from everything else, and it had seemed the most fitting for getting across what he wanted.

“Well, yes? I don’t understand the question. There is nothing ‘just’ about it. You want to know why? Because thee is nothing ‘just’ about you, John, and so the proposal had to be up to par. Obviously.”

“I am just a doctor.”

“Now you’re trying to make me annoyed, which I will not accept. You are that, and that’s good and very useful, but you’re so much more than that,” and Sherlock circled the other’s waist, drawing him close, “and I may be biased in many aspects, but I’ve known that since I first saw you.”

“No, you didn’t.”

“Well, close enough.” He got a raised eyebrow for his trouble. “Alright, so perhaps I didn’t fully know just how multi-layered you are when I first met you and got a few things wrong. Happy?”

Exceedingly and not because of that.” He smiled warmly. “Thank you, love, for going through all of this for me. You didn’t have to – “

Yes, I did.”

Well, you didn’t have to do it this way, then, but I’m glad you did. Ecstatic, in fact.”

They stayed like that for another long moment, exchanging another few kisses. Then, without a word, they parted and went over to the seating area with the things that John had brought. Not all of them were suited for eating but that hadn’t been the focus. Merely a happy coincidence, really, that they or where they’d come from had been relevant and significant to their lives together in some way and could be a consumable fit for celebration of this new chapter of their life.

“You do know that…well, something comes after all this, yeah?” John asked as Sherlock poured for them both.

“If you’re trying to obliquely refer to a wedding, then yes, I am perfectly aware. I wasn’t under the impression that all you had to do was have a ring on and then seal it with a kiss.”

“Oh good.”

Sherlock paused in pouring, eyes slightly narrowed. “You thought I was?”

“I…I want to say no, love,” John said, caressing the hand he held in his, “but it can be a bit of a pin-the-tail to pinpoint which bits of normal life you know about in sometimes worrying detail and which have passed you by, either partially or completely.”

He squeezed the hand in his. “I just wanted to be sure, that’s all.”

“Hm. Lucky for you, then, that I’m in such a good, charitable mood right now.”

To be honest, Sherlock felt as though he might float, his insides as warm as his nose was cold. Warmer. Much, much warmer, in fact.

It had come true. All of it. Everything that he had hoped but hadn’t dared believe would come true had in fact become reality.

John smiled and laid his head on a bony shoulder, changing hands and slipping one arm around the other’s waist. “Mmh. Lucky. That’s the one. Guess it’s just my lucky night all around, then, innit?”

His smile beamed across the quiet night and Sherlock could only hope to return it.

“Well, it is Christmas. I hear it’s the time of miracles and similar things.”

How could his heart still beat fit to dance the devil’s jig at this point? Sherlock didn’t know, but since it was a dance of joy and relief and love, he couldn’t find it in him to care, either.

It was all fine. Even the prospect of going to Christmas Dinner didn’t bother him. At the moment, he felt that nothing could and might never again.

He had everything he could possibly want right here and though he did have both a Christmas present and an anniversary present waiting for John at home, he was quite content to stay here for a long while yet and bask in the moment.

That it is.” The blond tugged the orange blanket up over them both as Sherlock settled himself back against him. Wine and dessert could wait.

“Happy anniversary, John.”

“Happy anniversary, Sherlock, and merry Christmas, too.” He leaned up and kissed the brunet’s cheek.

“Merry Christmas.”

It might be that there were challenges to face in the future but that was alright. They would’ve been there in any case and at this point, if they could weather the life they had and still have a functioning, most of the time, relationship then there was nothing about married life that could scare him.

He might even look forward to the wedding itself.

No. No ‘even’ about it. He most definitely did look forward to it.

So long as he could somehow wiggle out of Mycroft being best man, or worse, at the event. But that was a concern for later.

For now, things were…just as he’d hoped for.

As they should be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the POV shift at the start, it just seemed to fit.  
> I'm at the point where I don't even care that it's probably too long or it might be overly sweet or whatever else mistake I've made. It's done and it's before Christmas so I feel like it's a win. For me, at any rate.  
> Merry Chistmas, everyone.

**Author's Note:**

> There...alright to start off on?  
> True to form, this turned out longer than I thought it would and I am not posting that long one-shots. I'm writing as fast as I can, though, and it'll be up before Christmas, I promise.  
> At least I've enjoyed writing this, that's something.
> 
> Feedback is as always loved and cherished but I would appreciate it if any criticism is kept constructive.


End file.
